by Faye, Amy
But it would be really nice to know that, if she tried to turn a profit, and if she wanted it to be a business, then she could. If she had to. That would be a really big vote of confidence from the entire campus, and that sort of confidence would feel really good.
She flips through the notes one more time. If it was going to be professionally done, then even with her nice handwriting, hand-written wouldn't cut it. Which means a little review of laying out publishing materials. But that's easy enough.
After all, she's already done all the homework for the week. So the girls had that thing, tonight. They were going out somewhere, needed a ride. No problem.
That will still leave plenty of time to look into this. Plus, she'll be doing the sisters a favor. None of them have ever turned down any request that Emma made. But having that little bit of leverage, that little bit of ability to say, well, I did help you with that one thing…
It makes going to them and asking for their help selling these study guides a lot easier.
She flips her notes shut. But how much to charge?
Well, she thought, groceries aren't expensive. Not when you're eating cheap. Not when you're not eating the cheap food you've already bought.
Certainly not then.
Which means… Emma does the numbers in her head. If she can just make twenty dollars a month, it'll be tight, but she can get by. Anything more than that means that she might be able to eat more than a couple bowls of ramen a day.
Which, if she's honest, might be nice. But it's not how the past couple months have been going, and if she's honest it's probably not how the next couple months after that are going to go.
There's more to life than eating different foods. She got by for years back home with only the cheap stuff. Her parents never complained one time about rice and beans, or ramen noodles. Never once in their lives.
But still—the thought shoots through Emma's head like a bolt of lightning, before she can stop herself—it would be nice, just once, to eat a big, juicy steak. Like she'd seen on television.
It would be really nice. And then she could say, you know, that she'd tried it. She tried it, maybe she liked it. Maybe she didn't.
But she could at least say she didn't need the charity. She did it on her own, and she didn't need to beg from anyone. If there was one thing that she had to be proud of, at least, it was that much.
She'd never begged anyone, nor would she ever have to.
She could probably get five copies of her notes out the door. If the sisters got out there and advertised for her, that is. If it was just up to her, maybe one or two. Which means she'd better split the difference.
Three a week, every week. Okay. Seven dollars a pop.
The number sounds wrong. No, five. Five dollars a week. And it comes with a money-back guarantee. You use the notes for a week, go over them forward and backward, come and talk to me if you don't understand something, and you don't get an A on your next test, and you get your money back.
It's fair. The guarantee sounds nice. Nobody would ever question any of it.
The only problem now is getting it all done, getting it out the door, and doing it all without letting it interrupt the rest of her schedule.
That, of course, and making sure that the bank fixes their mistake with the over-drawn account that she hasn't spent any money from outside of meager expenses.
Chapter Six
The day was as long as it always was. Things could have gone worse, of course, but every single week he'd been regretting the decision to take American History. It was too much to keep track of. Names, numbers, and none of it meant anything.
Sure, some interesting stuff happened. Sure, there was a good reason to keep track of it all. But what was the fundamental difference between Eighteen-Ten and Eighteen-Fifteen?
There's more to life than remembering that stuff. Craig knew this, because American History was only a short part of his day. Or, perhaps it was a long part. A two-hour lecture is hell, regardless of the subject, unless they're doing it inside a strip club. Even then, Craig suspects that it would lose its flavor quickly.
But at least it's only twice a week. Tuesdays and Fridays. Well, no problem. He'd have time to study the next couple of days, and then Friday would be the test. No problem at all.
The game, on the other hand, hadn't been as much of a problem. The whole thing was about team cohesion, right? Well, they're not going to simply not field Weston, their star. So he went out with most of the B-squad, just to get a feel for who he could rely on.
After all, there may have been a B-squad quarterback, but not one that they could lean on. The whole strategy relied so heavily on Weston that he was starting to feel the strain in spite of himself.
He dressed perfunctorily. There had been plans to study, to do all kinds of stuff tonight. He had a free night for the first time in what felt like forever. No assignments, nothing coming up. No afternoon practice, so no afternoon girls.
And wouldn't you God damn know it, he couldn't relax. Something felt empty. Something felt like it was missing. It didn't take a genius to figure out what it was. The beginnings of that old devil burning up his veins. The one that he generally kept in his jeans.
So without an afternoon practice to announce to every girl in the county that he was available for hounding, he'd have to make a more open announcement.
The nearest club wasn't that far away. It was a college town, after all. If girls couldn't get some dancing, their heads might pop off. At least, all the girls Craig had known.
There was a long moment where he questioned whether or not this was a good idea. It almost certainly wasn't, in fact, but he wasn't about to try to fuss with that.
He should put his head down, eat his cheeseburger patty, and head into bed. The morning would find him feeling better. All of this was the discomfort of changing himself. Changing his routine. For the better.
But the devil in his mind is more powerful than that. Won't be denied. Go on out, it tells him. You'll have a great time. You can always say no later.
Sure enough, he could. It's not that hard. He'd had plenty of opportunities. The girls wouldn't hold him the hell down. They'd just give him a little smile, they'd flutter their eyelashes just a bit, and make sure that he knows, if he's interested, well, they'd like to get to know him better.
But that doesn't mean he has to take them back someplace private and learn how their bodies work. There's plenty of other ways that scenario could go. Plenty.
He could sit down and have a conversation. He could eat dinner with them.
Well, no, he couldn't eat dinner with them, because his dinner was planned. They wouldn't like to have a sit-down meal with a guy who cuts apart a half-pound of ground beef and cheese every night. That's not the Craig Weston they've got in their heads.
It's totally understandable that they'd be confused. There's a lot more mystique surrounding him than there needs to be. Then again, how much of a star could he be if there wasn't any mystique at all? Not even some little niggling question of what kind of person he is?
Well, there was one kind of person that he didn't want to be any more, and that was the kind that slept with any girl he ran into.
That didn't mean he couldn't go out for just a little drink, and just a little dancing. None of that would hurt. He could totally stay on top of everything. And if he didn't, if he lost his composure and actually let himself slip a little, well…
Well, he wasn't going to. It was that simple. He'll just turn down any girls who come up. This is about dancing, drinking, relaxing for an hour or two. Just long enough to cool his head and get him relaxed for the coming season.
Relaxing is just as important as training, after all. If your head is swimming and you're constantly super tense, you're not going to perform as well as you could. So a little relaxing is fine.
Just as long as he forces it to stay relaxed. No funny stuff. He slips the car keys into his pocket. Only a half-mile away. If he has to, he'll just
walk home. It won't be a problem.
But he can't afford a hangover anyways, so he's not going to have more than a beer or two. Mostly it'll just be dancing, enjoying the music and the swell of the crowd and recharging his batteries out on the dance floor.
No girls to distract him, no drinking to excess. Simple as that. As easy and simple as can be. Just enough time to burn off the excess energy that was coursing through him, making his arm-hairs stand up on end.
That's all. Just a little relaxing. No problem at all. He takes a deep breath, bores a hole in the wall with his eyes for a moment while trying to convince himself that there's no way this can go wrong, and then slips out the door and into the old convertible.
It's a short ride to the bar. Nothing really worth commenting on. The sun's already going down, and the place seems about as busy as it could ever get. There are only a couple thousand people in a ten mile radius, and they all live right next door, practically.
The music is loud enough that he can hear it at a reasonable volume from the outside. It's weirdly reminiscent, though, of playing in the middle of the stadium. The way the crowd swells all around you, the pressure of their voices pushing you to push yourself. To be better than you were before. It's relaxing him already.
A sign beside the door reads 'Every Night is Ladies' Night' and then proves it by listing the difference in cover charge for the men and the women. Craig pulls out his wallet and pulls a fiver out of his pocket.
There's no line to speak of. Some places in the city might get them, but here, space isn't exactly super limited. The door-man takes it and gestures him inside. Craig mutters a 'thanks' and heads inside.
It's not like he would have expected it to be, at the worst. Nobody stops and stares. The DJ doesn't jerk the spinning record to a hissing stop as he walks in.
But it doesn't take Craig Weston long before he knows that he's been noticed by just about everyone in the bar.
It doesn't take long before a very pretty girl in very pretty clothing that doesn't leave a lot to the imagination starts walking up and making eyes at him.
And it sure doesn't take long until Craig Weston realizes that the devil in the back of his mind, the one that whispered how everything was going to be just fine, had lied to him.
He had always known how this was going to end. His blood starts pumping. Time for the night to get started.
Chapter Seven
The question that surged through Emma's mind as she sipped her Coke and tried not to notice Craig Weston, was who she was. How had her father raised her? Was she a good Christian woman? Was she a shepherd, responsible for the flock?
Or was she just going to let him get away with this over and over again until some woman got hurt? Until some woman got pregnant or so upset that she did something drastic that they couldn't undo?
No. If it was somewhere far away, somewhere that was completely out of control, then she could let it keep happening. It was something that was out of her control, after all. She couldn't stop it because she couldn't see it.
Craig Weston was a tool, and he was insidious and a liar and a silver-tongued devil. But she couldn't be everywhere that he was, regardless of what she was right or wrong.
It wasn't Emma Owens's job to fix everything that was wrong with the world. She couldn't let it become her job.
But that was a big difference from letting him do it right in front of her. Right in front of her. Erin wasn't exactly doing a hell of a lot to stop him. No, she was all for it. She leaned into him. She thought this was going to be great and wonderful. A great experience all around.
Well, she doesn't know any better. Not like Emma knows. A deep breath. There's a lot going on here. More than Emma is prepared to deal with. But that doesn't mean that she's going to let it happen, regardless.
She summons up every ounce of her courage, swallows the rest of the mostly-flat Coke, and sets the glass down on the bar.
Her hand comes up and settles on Erin's shoulder, pulls back gently.
"Erin, come on. It's time we got you back to the house."
"Hey, if she wants to leave, she'll leave." Craig looks at her the same way that Emma looks at him. Ready to fight.
Well, if he wants a fight, he can have one. But until then, Emma's going to do what she has to do.
"Emma, don't be a buzz-kill." Dismissive. It lights up a fire in Emma's blood.
"Erin, you're drunk."
Erin turns away from Craig. The spell's broken, just a little. Emma looks over her sorority sister's shoulder at Craig and makes a face. She has to.
Otherwise he might see that she'd spend all damn day watching him if she could. And not just so she could make sure that he doesn't break another girl's fragile heart. There's much more selfishness in the fantasies that have kept Emma up more than one night.
Erin looks frustrated at her. It's not hard to figure out why.
"Emma, I'm fine. I'm not drunk."
Craig speaks up from behind her. "Look, I don't want any trouble. I just want to finish my beer, get out there and dance."
Emma speaks for Erin. Erin, in spite of claiming that she's not drunk, is intoxicated on something else. Something much more powerful than alcohol. She's intoxicated on Craig Weston, and no girl's ever resisted that, not so far as Emma's seen.
"Go on, then."
Craig turns the bottom of his bottle towards the sky and drinks down the last swallow of brown liquid inside. Then he takes a step back, his hands spread out wide. A girl bumps into his arm. He pulls it back in.
She gives him a look that says maybe she didn't mind so much. Craig seems to let Emma have her moment, though. He takes another step back. "I'm going."
"Good."
The look on Erin's face isn't one that says she's happy with what just happened. Emma can just about repeat it back to her before she even opens her mouth to start.
"What the fuck, Emma?"
Emma looks up at her friend. It's not easy being the shortest of the bunch. Not easy at all.
"Baby doll, you know he's not going to stay with you."
"What's your point? We're not all out here looking for husbands."
"No, we're not. I get that. But Erin, babe, you need to use your head, okay?"
Erin snorts. "If I didn't know better, I'd guess you were trying to keep me for yourself."
Emma blinks. "What?"
The other girl blinks back and then her eyes get wide. "I'm sorry. It was, like. I was joking. I'm sorry. I was just trying to make a joke that, you know. Like." She takes a deep breath. "You know, cause you're never hanging out with any guys, right? And you call everyone 'babe,' and you know. Like."
Emma's lips pinch together, though she's not sure whether it's to hold in a laugh or to hold in the twisting feeling in her gut. "Erin, I'm not a lesbian."
"No! Like. I didn't— It's fine if you are, but—"
"Well, then it's fine, because I'm not. Trust me. I'm not."
Emma's eyes roll a little. If Erin was in her head, she'd know exactly how little she thinks about girls. No, an awful lot of her thoughts are about men. About one man in particular.
As long as she kept those thoughts to herself, and as long as she made sure that nothing happened as long as she could stop it… then it would be fine. It would be as if she hadn't even thought it.
But until she could stop Hurricane Weston from hitting every other girl in Beta Kappa Delta, she wasn't going to be able to completely ignore those thoughts.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned it. Now it's all weird."
"Erin. No. It's not weird. Don't say it's weird. Please."
"I'm sorry, Emma."
"Babe. Don't be sorry. It's fine. Just. Don't bring it up. You're making it weird by being weird about it."
"Are you sure? I'm sorry."
"I'm going to go order another Coke. You go do whatever. Leave Weston alone. He's no good for you. He's no good for any of you girls, okay? Any other guy, do your thing. But Weston's off-limits."
/> Erin looks unconvinced. As much as Emma can't let him just get away with seducing these girls with impunity, though, there's no way to just make Erin believe her, either. She has to make her own decisions. All she can do is try to keep her friend on the right path long enough to have a clear head when she makes the choice.
The bartender must have heard Emma mention that she wanted another Coke, because when she turns around, there's one waiting there already. She looks over, confused. The guy behind the bar's got a long beard that might have been stylish, and he nods when she catches his eye.
She takes the cup and heads back over to the walls. Someplace out of the way. She doesn't have time for dancing. There's nothing wrong with it, for other people, but it's always been uncomfortable. If Emma went out there, she'd only be making a fool of herself.
Not that anyone out there is lighting up the dance floor. If she had to, Emma could figure out how to do no different than anyone else is doing.
She takes a deep breath. Nothing to worry about. The crisis with Erin is averted. She'll be just fine now on her own.
She got all the warning she needed. The question is, though, whether or not that makes it okay to just let him keep getting away with it.
Why is it that it's okay for other girls to get taken in by that silver-tongued asshole? Why is it okay for some girl that Emma doesn't know, if it's not okay for her sisters? Is there some world in which it doesn't matter that other people are being wronged, just because you don't know them?
Is that the way that her father taught her to look at the world? Is that how morality works?
Not a chance in hell. Emma takes a deep breath and gathers up her courage. This is going to turn into a much bigger project than she'd ever intended for it to be. Whether that's good or bad, she's not sure.
But she can't tell Erin that Weston's off-limits and hope that's good enough.
If Emma's going to be responsible for the other girls on campus, then she's going to be responsible for them. And that means dealing with Craig Weston head-on.
