by Rachel Shane
The shrieks from the nearby girls hammered my ears. Apprehension knotted at the base of my throat. I stood ramrod straight, rooted in place, my face prepped for a wince. I had a bad feeling about what this rally really was announcing.
Layla continued to talk about how the skits would be devoted to a specific theme related to issues many students face on campus. Underage drinking. Drugs. One night stands. Sure, the topics might be informative…if I believed they were going to be written to help rather than to joke.
But the crowd seemed to lap it up, growing rowdier and rowdier as she went on.
“And the last thing we have planned, for right now, of course, is the help preference night! That’s where you each choose a help topic to support—each one will be held at a different bar—and there you’ll get together to discuss how you can help others. But we’ll only throw it if we get the house in question. And of course, we’ll abide by all Throckmorton regulations regarding drinking.” She said the last part in a rush, as if it was an afterthought or the fine print on a contract she didn’t want to actually sign.
Holly turned to me. “Just me or is every one of her ‘helping’ ideas just something that we used to do as part of rush when there were sororities and fraternities.”
A strangled sound I didn’t recognize broke from the base of my throat. “Not just you.”
One of the girls in front of us spun around as if she had radar for the word sorority. “Wait,” she asked us. “Do you know when rush starts? I thought this meeting was supposed to tell us.”
My jaw clenched. “I think it already did.”
The bar crawl, the skit night, and the mixer were all the events Layla was planning as part of recruitment. In fact, they were all rounds of rush. Bar hopping was her equivalent of house hopping like rushees do in the first round. Skit night meant round two, where each house performed a skit to entice potential recruits. And round three was Preference night, where each girl chose three houses to go back to and the houses then chose the girls they wanted to join based on their preference options. But Layla wasn’t just organizing it for old Rho Sig. She was organizing it for all fraternities and sororities.
All except one, of course. Ours.
HOLLY AND I RACED back to the house after Layla’s rally to tell the others about what we’d learned. Loud banging noises filtered from the basement and a few additional cars were parked in our cramped driveway. Muddy footprints marred the living room floor, leading in a wet trail through the hallway all the way to the kitchen. The sink looked like it had exploded with dirty dishes and…beer cans? I swiveled my head to the garbage and understood. It overflowed in cornucopia of filth.
Holly pinched her nose with her fingertips to stave off the rotten smell coming from the fridge. “Be right back. I’m moving out.”
My hands balled into fists. I felt the same way.
All of a sudden a loud crash sounded from the basement followed by a bunch of screams and “whoas.” I yanked open the door and marched downstairs, the stomps of my feet unmatched against the noises from downstairs. I stopped short when I cleared the ceiling as hot rage boiled through my veins. Several skinny guys were pounding on metal folding chairs with hammers, denting them to a choreographed beat. Nearly a hundred people crowded around them, each clutching beers. Four people huddled around two different microphones as Liam, Fallon’s boyfriend, directed them with a point of his finger. One girl instantly burst into tears and sang a sob story to the tune of a Shakespearean sonnet, the banging keeping her on beat. I stepped down another step but every head whipped toward me and a hundred hands flew up to their mouths in the universal sign for, “shhh!”
Fallon rushed over to me, carefully squeezing through groups of people to reach me. She also placed her finger on her lips and pointed to the mics.
After the woman finished her monologue, the rest of the actors rattled off lines in a scene, acting with their voices but not their bodies. The banging continued like a constant base line. When the scene finished, Liam spread his hands horizontally to indicate stopping. The actors set down the mics and traded places with people waiting on the sidelines against the white concrete walls. Liam strode toward the mic, decked out in full renaissance gear including tights, puffy sleeves, and a shoulder-length wig despite the recording being audio only. In the corner, Mackenzie sat with her computer audio equipment, fighting back an eye roll.
“It’s a dramatic reading mash-up of all of Shakespeare’s works,” Fallon told us. “You know, how some musical artists splice two songs together to create a new one? Same thing.”
I swallowed hard. “And they needed hundreds of people to do it?”
Fallon shrugged. “Well, Shakespeare wrote a lot of characters.”
“How much longer? Holly wanted to record her next episode.”
Fallon bit her lip. “Actually, it’s only been an hour and we’re still on the first act. Out of seven.”
“Crap, Trevor’s coming here at six!”
Fallon’s face fell. “I’ll make sure they’re done by five thirty then.”
“That still doesn’t solve Holly’s podcast.”
Holly appeared behind me. “We can just do it upstairs. I have Garage Band on my Mac.”
I followed Holly upstairs, my muscles coiling with every step. I needed that new house now, more than ever. I needed a place I could escape to.
Inside our room, I perched on my bed and wrapped my blanket around me as though it might protect me. If I was going to verbally expose myself, I needed to shield my body somehow. The base line banging still pounded the floorboards even up here. Holly flitted around the room, setting everything up, and then slid onto my bed next to me. It felt too close to be talking about something so intimate.
“And you’re going to disguise my voice?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, promise. The trick Mackenzie showed me is done in post-production.”
I took a deep breath and hoped she knew what she was doing. Hoped I trusted her even though I knew I did. “Okay then.”
Holly pressed the record button and a red circle blinked on and off like a warning. She did her usual intro spiel about how this was anonymous and went on to recap the previous guests and some things they revealed. I cringed. I so did not want to know that one of my roommates had slept with a professor. Ew. Gross. Kill me now.
It had to have been Harrison, right? Not Bianca or Mackenzie, RIGHT?
Ugh. This was why I hadn’t listened to those.
“All right, I’m going to ask you the same questions I’ve asked everyone. Please answer honestly. Don’t hold anything back.”
I immediately tensed up, prepared to hold everything back. Still, the newscaster part of me took over. “I’m ready.”
“How old were you when you lost your virginity and describe how it happened?”
I glared at her. Of course she went right in for the kill. I decided to as well. “I’d love to be able to say I lost it to a boyfriend. Someone I loved or cared about. But since I’m perpetually single and not a virgin, it didn’t happen that way.”
Holly smiled as if encouraging me to continue. Good thing she was a nursing major. To be a TV Host you had to keep the conversation going verbally. She’d already failed the cardinal rule.
“I was seventeen and the last of my friends to get it on. They all had boyfriends for years. I had braces.”
Holly let out a laugh.
“And braces should be marketed as guy repellent for anyone older than junior high. I didn’t get mine off until junior year of high school. As a result, I definitely had no game.” I had to take my cousin to the junior prom because no one would go with me. But I kept that detail to myself. “Long story short, I got the braces off, became outgoing, and suddenly had all these guys after me. I had my pick. And I realized I didn’t want just one. I wanted them all.”
Holly raised a brow at me and my cheeks flamed.
“But I could only choose one to lose it to.”
Holly giggle
d. “You mean you had a bone to pick?”
I punched her lightly in the shoulder. “I’m going to ignore that statement. But I guess, yeah. And I chose the one who was the best kisser hoping he’d be the best in bed. Spoiler alert, he was not.” It was an awkward, fumbling moment in the backseat of his car. A cop found us and shone the light in the car, making me swear the sex was consensual. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have chosen based on kissing prowess. I should have chosen the guy whose parents were never home.
We did it a few more times after that but it never surpassed my expectations. I never experienced a wild or Zen moment. Not until guy number two. But he soon left for college and so it was onto number three.
Holly must have read my mind because she asked, “And how many people have you slept with?”
I had no idea if my number was high or low. If it was respectable or slut worthy. I cupped my hand over the speaker. “What’s the average so far?”
Holly shook her head. “If you haven’t listened to the episodes, then I’m not telling you.”
I sighed but decided to answer truthfully. “Five.” There’d been two hook ups in college freshman year but nothing since. For the last two years I prided myself on the idea that I didn’t want to be tied down, but truthfully, all the relationships around me were starting to make me think I wanted something else. Something more. Something besides the physical.
Holly nodded, not giving me any indication if my number was high or low. “All men?”
My eyebrows flew upward. Had someone else slept with both sexes? “Yes,” I said and she frowned in disappointment.
“Favorite position?”
“Me on top.”
She laughed. “All the girls have said that.”
“And all the guys said doggy style, right?”
She clucked her tongue and gave me a finger gun to indicate the answer was yes.
We went through a few more questions rapid style. How many guys had I kissed? I didn’t know for sure but I guessed around twenty. How many guys had I gone down on? Four, but one of them didn’t get upgraded to sex partner. How many guys had gone down on me? Six. What can I say, I’m selfish sometimes. Anal? Nope. Threesome? Nope. Bondage? Stop asking me ridiculous questions. Lights on or off? On of course, I want to see the hot man bod, too. Did I ever use sex toys? Only alone. Any strange fetishes I had or unconventional turn ons? Just Trevor’s music. It always got me hot and bothered. But I kept my answer vague. “There are songs by a certain artist that always get me in the mood.”
“Marvin Gaye?” Holly asked.
“I’m not cliché!”
Strangest place I’d had sex? Car backseat, not exactly exotic. Have I ever had unprotected sex? I’m not an idiot. What’s my best sex tip?
I answered before I could get embarrassed saying it. “I love stripteases. The slow, sensual kind. But the guy doing it for me, not the other way around.”
Holly went through with some nurse-related advice on how to stimulate a guy best by using your tongue on his shaft and swirled around the trip. She then grinned and shut the audio. “Great interview.”
The space between my legs throbbed. It was probably a bad idea to see Trevor tonight for our scheduled podcast. Maybe I needed to pick another bone.
A bone named Keane.
AT SIX P.M. SHARP, a car honked in my driveway. I rolled my eyes. What, did Trevor expect me to escort him inside like his own personal butler? But then I remembered the equipment his agent Cliff promised and wondered if he needed help carrying it inside. I pushed myself off the couch and trudged toward the door. Okay, I didn’t trudge, I walked. Okay, fine, I skipped.
From her slump on the couch, Holly giggled at the delight in my step, which was nothing compared to the giggles she blasted me with when I paraded twenty different outfits in front of her before settling on a gray tweed skirt, thick maroon tights, and a white button down shirt with a silky bow at the collar. It was a professional look to show Trevor I was his co-host, his equal, not some girl he could use for publicity’s sake. The outfit was also armor, protecting me from myself. I couldn’t let myself spread like butter in Trevor’s hands any time he directed his dimples my way. Keane seemed to like me for my actions, not my connections. My outfit reminded me of that.
I shrugged on my pea coat instead of my puffer jacket and braced myself for the blast of frigid air. When I pushed open the door outside, I squinted against his bright headlights as snow streamed down in front of them. The snow had only been falling for an hour so far but a thick layer coated the walkway. I kept my toes out of range and waved him inside, my teeth already chattering. Hopefully it was the last snowstorm of the year.
Trevor honked again, this time long and annoyingly, like he’d left his hand on the buzzer.
I let out a frustrated sigh and gripped the cold metal railing with my gloved fingers. My stilettos crunched into a layer one inch thick on the ground. I skidded a few times on my way to the car, my insides boiling that he couldn’t be bothered to get out of the driver’s seat without someone opening his door. I waltzed right up to his door and knocked on the window, rapping so hard the sound reverberated into the night air.
He rolled it down and rubbed his hands together, glaring at me as if I had the nerve to make him cold. “Get in. Equipment’s all set up, but not here.” He wrinkled his nose at the house. “Trust me. Tonight’s recording will be way better if you get in the damn car.”
“Where are we going?” I straightened, my stomach flipping. Maybe Trevor had found us an actual studio, which would be perfect for recording the podcast but wouldn’t exactly solve all my other problems. In fact, it might only make them worse if we had no real reason to petition for the remaining house.
“You’ll see,” he said in a sing-song voice, a hint of the gravelly vocals he never had the chance to make famous.
“I’m going to need more infor—”
The front door swung open and Bianca bounded down the steps, shrugging on her winter coat as she ran. She held her arm up. “Wait!”
Behind her, Harrison hustled out after, not even bothering with his coat. He stomped through the snow, his long legs closing the distance between him and Bianca. Trevor groaned at the sight of them. Or maybe at the sight of Harrison.
Bianca took the steps carefully, gripping the railing to prevent slipping in the snow. “I’m coming.”
“We’re coming,” Harrison corrected, then pulled open the back door and flourished his hand for Bianca to get in.
“I’m cool with you,” Trevor said, nodding at Bianca. “But he’s not allowed.”
Harrison shuffled into the car anyway. “I’m not sure who I trust less, the asshat in the driver’s seat or the asshat’s friend Matt. Hence why I’m coming.”
Trevor punched the steering wheel, setting off the horn. “No fucking way. This is my car. My idea. My—”
“Either we come,” Harrison said. “Or you leave.” He donned a wicked grin. “The way I see it, you need us more than we need you. Checkmate.”
Trevor’s jaw clenched. All three heads turned to me as if I was the deciding factor.
Trevor cleared his throat, lowering his voice and pleading at me with his big blue eyes. “I need you, Erin.”
It was the pleading in his voice that set my legs into motion, the piercing eyes as he delivered the words that were the key to my downfall. I settled into the warm car, my stomach instantly turning into a flutter of nerves. I was in Trevor’s car. It was a Mercedes, of course, probably horrible on the snowy roads, but also not the limo he used to be chauffeured in. His hands gripped the wheel at two and ten, like any normal driver. Like a normal person. But he still didn’t seem real to me.
He wore a gray beanie pulled low over his shoulder-length blond hair, which stuck out at the bottom like a tease. A fitted cashmere sweater clung to his muscles as if the shirt was perfectly tailored to fit him and no one else. It wasn’t cellophane pants but it still made my mouth water.
In the back s
eat, Bianca and Harrison whispered in hushed voices. Trevor flipped on the radio, avoiding all pop stations before landing on NPR. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to get inspiration for our podcast tonight or if the thought of music still burned a hole deep in his gut.
I shifted in my seat. “Will someone please tell me where we’re going already?”
“I’d let Trevor do it but I know how much he loves to keep people in the dark,” Harrison snapped from the backseat.
Trevor abruptly swerved the car to the side of the road, wheels squealing against a spray of snow. A driver zoomed past us and honked loudly. “Out.” He twisted in his seat and glared at Harrison with a kind of venom usually only shown in thriller movies.
Harrison held up his hands. “I’ll play nice, I promise.” But the wicked grin on his face said otherwise.
I set my teeth on edge. Trevor hit the gas again and the car lurched forward.
Bianca let out a large sigh. “While these two douches are busy playing the whose-balls-are-bigger game, I’ll tell you.” She drummed up excitement with a big breath, and I turned around to face her. “We’re interviewing Alexis Rae. Um…I mean you two are.”
My mouth dropped open. Holy shit. Alexis Rae.
Bianca flicked her eyes toward Harrison for the briefest of moments, shaking her head ever so slightly, and suddenly I understood why Harrison had tagged along. He also planned to get interview sloppy seconds. Or firsts, depending on who published fastest.
“Cliff is also her agent,” Trevor added in a clear attempt to prove he had the connections here.
I leaned back against my seat, stunned. Alexis Rae was a twenty-year-old super star who had two number one country albums before changing allegiances and releasing her first pop album in the vein of Taylor Swift. Now Alexis’s album was topping the charts with not one, not two, but three number one hits off the same record. Her concerts all sold out in ten seconds flat, prompting her to add an entire second leg of the tour. She had a reputation for being the biggest sweetheart in the biz, the kind of girl who would hug interviewers every time they made her cry. She was scandal proof, no nipple slips, no late night make out sessions with bad boy celebrities, nothing negative ever said about her.
