by Ben Mezrich
He tossed the license in Scott’s direction. Scott picked it out of the air with a flick of his wrist, looked at the picture and the date of birth, then gave Garin a thumbs-up.
“Cool. Thanks, man. And I thought I was going to have to get by on my natural charm.”
With that, the kid turned and headed back on down the road, leaving Garin wondering if the moment had been the start of something interesting—or if he’d never see that strange, confident green-eyed kid again.
CHAPTER 3
Fifty-seven minutes. I shit you not. Paid off half the house debt and got myself banned from the Missoula County Fairgrounds for three years. But it was a hell of a party.”
Pete Barovich crossed his arms against his chest as he leaned back against an aging mahogany upright piano, shoulder-to-shoulder with a brunette in a midriff-baring halter top and low-rise skinny jeans. The girl had to be a volleyball player, she was so damn tall. She had a few inches on Pete, even without her three-inch chunky white heels, and Pete was seriously concerned that the two of them were testing the structural integrity of the antique instrument behind them. After all, the piano had already lost most of its keys, and two of its legs were so chipped and worn they looked like they’d been gnawed upon by a giant rodent.
Certainly, the thing hadn’t worked as a musical instrument since Pete had entered the house—which meant it fit right in with the rest of the vast living room’s décor. The place was actively falling apart, and now that the inaugural rush party was in full swing, even the floor beneath Pete’s feet seemed to be bucking and swaying in rhythm with a few hundred drunk college kids rapidly being whipped into an alcohol-lubricated frenzy.
“A thousand goldfish in fifty-seven minutes?” The brunette gasped. “That’s disgusting.”
She covered her mouth, feigning nausea. But Pete could see from the look in her eyes that she was actually impressed. He was pretty certain she’d heard the story before; it had fast become legend across the University of Montana campus and was one of the reasons Pete had been elected president of the fraternity while only a junior. Throwing a party like tonight’s was one thing, but throwing a party that would be talked about for years to come was an accomplishment that made it onto your résumé.
The Goat Barn Party—as it had become known—had taken place a year earlier, shortly after Pete had been elected SAE’s social chair. The house had been in desperate need of money; a cocaine scandal the year before had nearly gotten the frat kicked off campus and had put the place six figures into debt. Pete had decided the only way to save the house was to party their way out of debt. He had rented out a nearby state fairground, known for its working goat barn, and arranged the delivery of forty kegs of beer, a live band, and plenty of publicity. The goal was to get a ton of kids to attend—and charge them all—but in a place like Montana, that was easier said than done.
So Pete had come up with a unique plan. He’d gone to the local pet store and purchased five thousand goldfish. Anyone attending the party had a choice. Either pay full price—five dollars a head—or swallow a goldfish and get in for one dollar. Girls who swallowed a goldfish got in for free.
“Talk about setting the mood—swallow a goldfish at the front door, and by the time anyone set foot in the goat barn to hear the band and drink some beer, their inhibitions were gone. By the time it was over, I think nearly every cop in the city had made an appearance. The only reason I didn’t spend the night in jail was at least half the police force went to my high school.”
The girl laughed, wriggling a little closer. Pete felt the warmth of her bare shoulder against his arm and immediately bumped her up in his mental rankings. Garin wasn’t the only one assembling prospects that night.
Sliding a hand around her waist, Pete glanced out across the crowded living room. He tried not to grimace as he scanned the pathetic attempts at furniture: a handful of ratty couches strewn about the scuffed hardwood floor, the sofas upholstered in a clash of haphazard colors, pillows stained so deeply it was impossible to imagine what the original shades might have been. Shelving units that looked like they’d been plucked out of the trash were cluttered with old books, beer cans, and various trinkets that seemed collegiate—cloudy glass steins, broken sports trophies, old college yearbooks. The walls, where they were visible between the shelves, were cracked and peeling; the worst cracks were vaguely covered by oil paintings purchased at various garage sales and flea markets, depicting everything from sailboats to farm animals. No dogs playing poker, though a bit of framed velvet would have classed up the place enormously. Everything looked old while somehow avoiding any pretense of gravitas.
And yet Pete and his brothers loved that house. From the looks of the raucous crowd filling every inch of the living room, the feeling was infectious, at least enough to have attracted a good assemblage of the freshman class.
Pete momentarily forgot about the brunette leaning next to him as he surveyed the new talent Garin had invited into their carnival. A few faces he recognized from one or another of the various sports teams, whose recruitment had often included a tour of the houses on Greek Row. Others he recognized from the street outside. As a group, they seemed to be having a good time, reveling in the abundance of free alcohol, ear-shattering music, and the few dozen sorority girls whose main function was to draw the attention away from the state of the house itself.
Yes, if Pete said so himself, he sure was a marketing genius. He caught sight of Shane standing between a pair of girls in matching jeans shorts, both wearing shirts that may as well have been bikini tops—and raised an eyebrow. The prospects seemed good indeed.
And then Pete’s gaze settled on another recognizable face, a few feet behind Shane, in a corner of the room between an overturned loveseat and an oversize plaster bust of Gary Cooper that one of the brothers had won in a card game.
Scott Tom.
Even if Garin hadn’t taken a special interest in the kid earlier that evening, Pete would have given him a second look, and probably even a third. He was still wearing that ridiculous leather jacket, the cuffs inches above his wrists, as well as those damn boat shoes. And his eyes were still the same pools of green, taking in everything at once, constantly searching, scanning—like he was mentally disassembling all the furniture and putting it back together in a way that made more sense. This kid was different.
“Hold that thought for a moment,” Pete said to the brunette next to him, who now had a hand running up his right thigh. “I’ve got some house business to attend to.”
The girl followed his eyes, and then a look crossed her face.
“Not him. Anybody but him.”
Pete looked at her. “You know him?”
“We all know him. And not just my sorority. Go ahead, ask around.”
“Really? It’s only his first semester. How much damage could he have done this quickly?”
“Two rooming groups, three girls each, that I know of in my house alone. Slept with one roommate, then the next, then the next—all in the same weekend. And I heard that he’s already been banned by both Sigma Tau and Pi Theta E.”
Pete whistled low. A new town slut. The brunette’s warning was having the opposite effect on him than she’d intended. Pete was even more intrigued by the kid. He himself had built up quite a reputation, beginning back in high school—when he’d been known as Porno Pete, first, because of an uncanny resemblance to a famous porn star with the same first name, and second, because he’d racked up pretty good numbers in his school district, even before he’d won a couple of wrestling trophies.
Pete patted the girl’s hand, then delicately lifted it off of his thigh.
“Sounds like I’ll need to be careful with this one. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he’s on a strict leash tonight.”
The girl rolled her eyes as Pete pushed off the piano and strolled across the room toward the far corner. Along the way, he was shaking hands, slapping backs, pausing a few times to share a beer. Eventually he wound his way past Sh
ane, admiring the two bikini girls, then made his approach. Scott was still standing alone when he got there, but if the kid felt insecure in any way, he certainly didn’t show it.
His handshake was firm, his smile strong.
“This certainly looks like the place,” he said, in way of a greeting. Then he gestured toward the brunette who was still against the piano, leaning back to reveal even more of her criminally flat stomach. “I think her name is Julie, right? Phi Beta? They serve a great brunch on Sundays. Maybe I’ll run into you there, one of these weekends.”
Pete laughed. This kid was not going to disappoint. And from the way he was looking around the room, noticing every girl, it seemed clear where his priorities lay. Fair enough; most guys joined a fraternity for the girls. Brotherhood usually came as a surprise.
“Pete Barovich,” Pete said, introducing himself. “I’m from Billings. Basketball, football, wrestling, and tennis. Maybe we played against each other at some point?”
Scott shook his head. “You’re big city. I’m one hundred percent trailer park. The only way you might have met me in high school is if your mom worked for child services.”
Pete blinked. It took him a minute to realize the kid was serious. If he thought Billings, Montana, was a big city, he probably really had been brought up in a trailer. Which could be good or bad. Garin had stepped right off the farm, and he was now one of Pete’s best friends. Though a kid from a trailer park might not help that much with the house’s bottom line. It was the annual dues that kept the place afloat, after all.
“Dad’s an insurance salesman,” Pete responded. “Mom is a nurse. But I like to say, doesn’t matter where you start—”
“Only matters where you end up. Better yet—who you end up with.”
Scott grinned, jerking his head toward the brunette who was still crawling up the piano. Then he gave Pete a punch in the shoulder.
“Don’t worry, I keep my scars on the inside. Except the ones you can’t really hide, like the cigarette burns and the razor wounds.”
Pete opened his mouth, but Scott waved him off.
“Kidding. My dad got me out of that hellhole before I turned into a sociopath. He’s an investment banker in Seattle. If you let me into your house, I’m sure you’ll meet him. He’s almost as good at getting kicked out of sorority houses as I am.”
Pete laughed. Talking to Scott was like riding upside down on a Ferris wheel—you had to keep your hands on the fucking safety bar. He gave Scott’s shoulder a squeeze, feeling the thick leather of that distressed jacket.
“I got a good sense about you. If the rest of the guys like you as much as I do, and you somehow survive Hell Week, I think you could end up giving me a run for my money with the girls. And I sure as hell like a challenge.”
“Then cut out the chitchat and get me a motherfucking beer. The night is just getting started.”
Pete caught sight of Shane again, over Scott’s shoulder. Shane gave him a thumbs-up; there wasn’t going to be much debate about this one.
Maybe Scott Tom had grown up hard, but Pete had a feeling the kid was going to fit in well with the SAE brothers. Hell, with a smile like that, and his almost obscene level of confidence, maybe one day he’d be running the whole goddamn house.
CHAPTER 4
So this is how it ends, Scott Tom thought as he struggled to disentangle himself from the heavy blanket that someone had tucked much too tightly around the corners of the queen-size mattress in the center of his room. For a brief second he pondered who might have been responsible for the blanket, because he sure as hell hadn’t tucked it in himself—but then there was that sound again, an ear-shattering roar that seemed to split the very air, and the whole house was suddenly trembling around him.
If it really was an earthquake, he didn’t want to die like this, half-naked and trapped under a blanket. Even worse, down by his feet he could feel what seemed to be a sequined tube top. And up by his elbow, a pair of jeans, with a pair of thong underwear still inside.
Kicking as hard as he could, he finally got himself free of the blanket. The roar went off a third time, nearly knocking him onto the floor. He pushed himself to his feet, using the shiny chrome stripper pole he’d installed next to his bed for leverage. He’d always known the pole would come in handy, despite what Pete and the rest of the brothers thought of his home-decorating tastes. A stripper pole just made sense—especially since he’d painted the walls a searing bright red and installed those mirrored panels along the ceiling. But then again, what the hell did he care what his frat brothers thought of his room’s décor? In the semester and a half since he’d moved into the house, he’d discovered that he was by far the most imaginative of the group.
Using the pole as an axis, he flung himself toward the door. Just as his hand reached the knob, he heard another cacophonous burst.
But now that he was closer to the source, it no longer sounded like an earthquake. Flinging the door open, he found his suspicions confirmed—though his initial confusion and thoughts of impending doom were understandable.
Scott had seen plenty of crazy things since he’d moved into the SAE house, but the sight before him was pure bedlam. Half a dozen brothers were out of their rooms, lining both sides of the third-floor hallway, most in similar states of undress. And there, like an untamed beast pawing through the hall carpet and into the very floorboards, some idiot on a four-hundred-pound Harley was in the process of taking out half the banister as he spun the massive steel-and-chrome motorcycle in a wheelie. With a warrior’s cry, the guy suddenly headed back down the stairs, carpet and wood splinters spraying in his wake.
Christ. At least the idiot was wearing a helmet. Scott shook his head, rubbing the last vestiges of sleep out of his eyes. He was about to go back into his room to try to solve the mystery of the tucked-in covers and the disembodied thong when he saw Pete coming toward him from the end of the ruined hall.
For a brief second, Scott considered stepping back into his room anyway, locking the door behind him. Over the past few weeks, Pete had visited him more than a few times to discuss various complaints that had come his way, usually regarding one or another sorority house that Scott may or may not have upset. Hell, it wasn’t his fault if certain girls had unrealistic expectations; if Scott was anything, he was always brutally honest. After all, the walls of his room were painted bright red, and there was a stripper pole suspended from his mirrored ceiling. Even more clear, right behind where his hands were resting on the outside of his door there were Roman numerals imprinted in the wood: XXIII. Although Scott didn’t remember anything from the night before, he was pretty sure, based on the thong in his bed, that he was going to have to get out his carving knife and add another number to the door.
Pete reached him just as the Harley skidded its way to the ground floor, aiming toward the main entrance and, beyond that, the front lawn.
“That’s something you don’t see every day,” Pete said, as he peered over what was left of the banister to survey the damage. “Now maybe we can get that damn carpeting replaced. It’s soaked up so much spilled beer, it’s like walking in a marsh.”
“I always chalked that up as part of the house’s innate charm.”
Pete grinned. “First day I toured this place, they were taking me down a hallway on the second floor when a door hinge came loose and the door swung open—and there was one of the brothers, banging his girlfriend up against his dresser. Whole group of us freshmen standing there in the hallway, and this guy just kept right on going. Yeah, it’s hard to imagine anyone making a fuss about the crappy carpet. As long as the girls keep coming through the entrance, nobody gives a damn.”
Pete pointed past Scott to the numbers on his door.
“But I don’t think I have to convince you.”
Scott looked at him with innocent eyes.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that. However, you wouldn’t happen to have seen number twenty-four wandering around the house somewhere—maybe a lit
tle bit naked, save for the odd sequin or two? Unless you’re here to break my balls about some sorority house—in which case there wasn’t any girl here last night, and she didn’t leave her thong in my bed.”
Pete shook his head. “Actually, this time I’m here because of your brother.”
Scott glanced up, confused. Brent—his stepbrother, actually; Scott’s mother had married Brent’s father, and Brent had grown up with his stepfamily, saving him from much of the hell that Scott had the misfortune of calling his childhood—was renting a small room on the second floor of the house, on Scott’s urging, partly because the house needed the revenue but mainly because Scott hoped Brent would end up at SAE when he matriculated the next year. Scott had always done his best to look after his younger stepbrother; Brent had grown up so dirt poor that the neighbors in his fundamentalist Mormon hometown, just outside of Salt Lake City, would leave baskets of food and clothing on his front porch. Now, Scott’s father, Phil, was helping him pay the rent so he could get out of that environment.
Scott himself had only recently reconnected with Phil, who’d enabled him to go to college in the first place, offering him tuition money and convincing him to write a letter to the university describing the harshness of his background, to explain why he might not have had the grades or the opportunities of the other kids. But he’d had no one to look after him when he was a kid, and he didn’t want Brent to ever feel as helplessly alone as he once had.
The idea that Brent could be causing any trouble at the frat house—having only just arrived a few days before—seemed laughable. Brent was just about the sweetest, quietest, most humble kid Scott had ever met.
