by Angel Lawson
I pull on a shirt, guessing, “Pretty Nick give you trouble?” He usually does. Despite the name, nothing about him is pretty.
“Nothing more than the usual,” he answers, folding his arms.
I rub my chin. “Do I need to have my dad talk to him?”
Rath cuts in, “What you need to do is not be fucking last year’s Lady.”
“He’s right.” Tristian nods. “That won’t fly once we have our own Lady.”
I roll my eyes at this, not needing them to tell me the rules here. Fidelity when it comes to a house’s girl is a joke. The Dukes, the Counts, the Lords…we fuck who we want, when we want, how we want. The Princes might get off on treating their girl like a princess, but that’s not us.
Either way you shake it, though, fucking a previous Lady is a huge affront—not just to the current Lady, but to the whole system itself. It says she’s worth having outside the context of The Game. It tells her she’s special. Better than the rest of the Ladies. Someone to keep around.
No Lady is any of those things.
“Relax,” I assure them both. “I just wanted to approach this with some post-nut clarity. You two will be panting over the first big-tittied whore who walks into this place, but I’ll be level-headed. We need some new blood. I’m sick of the same, tired pussy.”
Tristian stresses, “We have to choose someone good—someone interesting. I saw the Duchess last week, and she is fucking stacked.”
I scoff at this. “Big tits are nothing.” All the girls are pretty and slutty. It takes something special to really set one apart in this place.
“Choosing a Lady is the worst part of winning The Game,” Rath complains once again.
“Yeah,” Tristian agrees, mouth twisting into a devious smile, “but having one is the best part of winning The Game.”
The Game. The fuel that runs the Lambda Delta Zetas, or Lords, as everyone calls us. Despite the titles, the Lords are the highest tier frat on campus, and the most notorious due to the cutthroat Game played every year. It’s pretty simple, all the frats on campus compete for who gets the most points by participating in a variety of challenges.
Lords always win.
As a result of our long history of owning this town, the Lords reside in our fancy as hell brownstone, complete with custom, individual rooms, a cook, a personal assistant, and of course—the very best-worst part—our own Lady, hand-selected by the previous year’s winners.
Years ago, Tristian, Rath, and I made a pledge to own the Lords by senior year. We made it by our junior year instead. We didn’t even have to work for it—our names were enough to get us to the top—but we did anyway.
The Game isn’t the garden-variety university shenanigans. There’s a lot riding on the line. Reputation. Stacks of money. Careers. Mostly, it’s about proving that you’re the most ruthless, the most heartless, the worst of the worst, the cream of the creep crop. Some frats don’t even bother with it. The Princes treat their Princess like a pampered little show wife. But we know what this Game is all about.
It’s a competition that was practically made for us.
We moved in at the end of the summer, each of us taking a room in the house. Martin is our personal assistant who handles the logistics of the frat. Ms. Crane is the housekeeper and cook. They both come with the brownstone.
But the Lady? Well, that’s a special job, created by Lords decades before. A female college student is hand-picked to live in the house and provide for our needs—all of our needs—as we see fit. In return, she gets special status on campus, free room and board, and the badge of honor of surviving a year with the most merciless guys on campus. It takes a special kind of woman to handle a Lord. It takes even more to handle three of them—especially when those Lords are me, Tristian, and Rath.
Two weeks ago, an announcement was made for this year’s Lady. Martin collected the applications and set up the interviews. All we have to do is sit through them and make a selection, which, according to last year’s residents, is supposed to be a fucking blast.
For them, it probably was. But for us? Well, let’s just say the three of us haven’t had the best luck when it comes to branding a girl as our own. We’ve always fucked discriminately, but these days it’s one-and-done, and it’s easier like that.
Look at what happened our senior year of high school, Tristian finally falling for someone he deemed worthy of the title only to find out she’d been fucking the softball coach behind his back. He plays it off pretty well these days, but Rath and I know how deep that cut goes. Rath has never let any girl close enough to deduce the scent of his deodorant, let alone live under the same roof. And then there’s me, still obsessing about the one who got away. Instinctively, my gaze moves down to the inside of my bicep, to the tattoo I’d gotten Freshman year; a girl with dark hair and big eyes.
If we find a good Lady, it’ll be hard to set her free. If we pick a bad one, then we’ll have to live with substandard pussy for the next nine months. There’s no great outcome here.
“At least we can make them do anything we want,” Rath says, echoing my thoughts as we enter the parlor. That’d be a silver lining if it weren’t already our usual MO. “Whittaker made every applicant give him a blow job last year.”
Tristian and I nod, knowing all too well. The ones who didn’t get on their knees were instantly cut.
“Yes,” Martin says, looking relieved to see us ready for interviews. “They’ve all signed waivers. They’re well aware of the position they’re applying for.”
We each take our seats and Martin escorts the first girl in. She’s blonde, sexy, and wearing six-inch fuck me heels.
I barely glance up before saying, “Next.”
2
Story
I stand in front of the brownstone, checking and rechecking the address. It’s unnecessary. Everyone knows this place. For a house that’s indistinguishable from the others on first glance, it only takes a moment of scrutiny to feel that this one has a strange presence. Regal. Looming. A little colder. It’s hard not to think about what’s behind this door. Right this second, they’re in there, waiting, so close that my pulse is racing against the truth of it.
I know from my research that the house has four stories in all, including the basement, with the fourth floor probably overlooking the park. The location is perfect for students, coveted, a quick walk or bike ride to the University half a mile away. It’s not a surprise that the most powerful club at the school has this for their residence.
After reconfirming the address one last time, I climb the front steps and approach the door. The brass knocker is a huge, heavy skull with Greek letters carved into the forehead. The Lambda Delta Zetas, or Lords, are a century-old exclusive club that has dominated Forsyth University for just as long. There’s no doubt I’m in the right place.
After taking one last look over my shoulder, I wrench open the door and let myself in. Three other girls are already waiting in the front room—a formal parlor. Each, I assume, is here to apply for the same position. My stomach twists in anxiety as I look around, half expecting one of the guys to appear in a doorway.
I give a tight smile to the girl closest to me and take a seat in one of the armchairs. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve prepared to be here, under the same roof as them. It still feels like I’m jabbing a knife into a light socket, waiting to get zapped.
I try not to compare myself to the other applicants, but it’s hard. It’s obvious from their hair, clothes, and physical beauty that a certain type of girl is expected here, one that doesn’t surprise me in the least. I know instantly that I don’t fit the mold. The pitying looks they give me in return confirms that they know it, too.
Save it, I think bitterly. I’m not here to be some show poodle for a bunch of frat boys. I wouldn’t be here at all if I had other options, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
And that’s exactly what I am.
Desperate.
Why else would I come here
, to these three men who have already hurt me, shamed me, violated me? It’d have to be bad, to seek them out, to put myself beneath their heels again, but willingly this time. Once again, my stomach turns at the thought. Even though I’ve faced it down and accepted what must be done, it doesn’t make it easy.
I never told on Killian and his friends for what they did to me, which is funny, in a horrific sort of way. I’d ended up shutting down my sugar baby account anyway. Obeying their disgusting orders was all for nothing, in the end. I didn’t leave my room for a week, faking sick, and falling into a deep depression. Something about the three of them knowing about my sugar baby account bothered me almost as much as what’d happened in the laundry room. As a result, I’d deleted all traces of my online activities.
The Plan was dead in the water. There’d be no getting out—not on my own, not without help. After a week of hiding in my room and cleaning up my past, I begged my mother to let me apply to boarding school. She and Daniel argued about it for days, until eventually the word came. He’d agreed to pay for me to go to an all-girls school across the country. It wasn’t ideal. My plan had been to run away. To be on my own and free. But sometimes you have to make compromises.
I packed my things and never looked back.
The first year away was about getting my shit together. I focused on my studies, joined activities and groups, tried my best to adapt to this idea of a normal, safe life. Things were even going smoothly.
Until the first letter from Ted arrived.
He was one of the first sugar daddies I’d spoken to. The letters were terrifying at first, the constant panic of having been found, even clear across the country, infecting every aspect of my new life. But really, the letters were nothing, not in comparison to what came next. The gifts. The messages on my personal social media. The emails. The photos. The videos. They grew more and more threatening, possessive, bitter at my lack of response. Even when I finally did get my wish—when I finally ran away from it all—he still found me again.
It was the biggest escalation that finally drove me here, to this awful place, with these terrible, heartless people.
The click-clack of heels on the marble floor echo down the hallway and another girl appears from the back of the house. Her blonde hair is in a sleek ponytail, her dress bright blue and cinched at the waist with a belt. Her shoes match and have sharp, pointed heels. Although she looks put together, her cheeks are red and she’s rubbing at something on her skirt with a handkerchief.
“Fucker came on my dress,” she says to the room. “This thing is silk!”
If anyone is shocked by what she says, they don’t show it. I’m grossed out but unsurprised. There’s nothing I’d put past these guys. They already proved that to me in spades.
A youngish, serious-faced guy appears in the hallway and calls out in a wobbly voice, “Bridget Walker?”
The brunette next to me stands and smooths out her skirt. She appears confident but I see the falter in her step. She’s smart to be nervous. She’s walking into a goddamn lion’s den, a sweet little lamb for the slaughter.
The door clicks shut down the hall. I stare at my nails, wondering for the millionth time if I’m doing the right thing. Then I remember that this isn’t about the right thing. It’s about survival.
“So,” the redhead across from me says. I glance up and see her addressing the other girl in the room. She’s curvy with smooth brown skin. A chain hangs around her neck with an elegant, cursive ‘D’ settling in the dip of her cleavage. “A friend of mine had her interview yesterday.”
“Oh yeah? Any advice?” D asks, as though we’re not competing for the same position.
“They’re all good looking and sexy. Intimidating. But you know that, I’m sure. It’s obvious when they’re walking around campus. But she said one of them seems really nice, at least. Sweet and charming, all smiles.”
Tristian Mercer. I’d know that description anywhere. People are so easily taken by it, even though he’s mean as a snake beneath the façade.
“Then there’s the quiet one with the piercings. Hot as hell, but super intense. Stared at her the whole time and totally gave her the creeps.”
Dimitri Rathbone—Rath.
“And then there’s the psychopath.”
“The what?” D asks, frowning.
“Killian, you know? Killer. He’s like ridiculously, panty-melting hot. Got a full ride for football, but…I don’t know. She said something is just off about him. It’s like he’s more than just a jerk. Like maybe he’s dangerous.”
D seems to consider this. “Dangerous can be sexy.”
“Yeah,” the redhead says, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “I know, but this is like another level. She said he’s completely in control at all times, to the point that when she blew him, he lasted so long her knees were rubbed raw and her jaw had totally locked up by the time he finally came.”
And that would be Killian Payne. My stepbrother. They have no idea just how much of a psycho he really is.
D just rolls her eyes. “That’s nothing special. I auditioned to be Countess last month and you wouldn’t believe some of the stuff they made me do.”
Red holds up a hand, head shaking. “No, I mean…obviously, any house is going to put their girl through the wringer—”
“Except the Princes,” I cut in, trying not to wilt under their gazes. I’ve done my homework. I know all about the rival frats and their respective girls.
Red snorts. “The Princes don’t even count. They’re total pussies.” Despite this, I see the way her eyes flick away, the spark of resentment there. She’d interviewed to be their Princess, no doubt about it. “But the Lords take it to another level. They’re more than just controlling. It extends to everything. What you wear, when you eat, where you sleep. They completely rule your life. They own you.”
“And in return, you’re the most powerful girl at school. No one can touch you. Well,” she laughs, “except them. Are you trying to scare me off? Because I know what I’m getting into. I’ve done my research.”
“Same,” Red replies. “Being the Lady on campus is the highest position you can have on the social scale at FU. I’ll do whatever it takes to get there.” Her gaze shifts to me. In a moment of clarity, I realize that this little gossip session was meant specifically to frighten me. “What about you, sweetie? Are you willing to do what it takes to be their Lady?”
Down the hall, the door swings open and the brunette, Bridget, emerges. She stumbles for a couple steps before finding her footing, eyes rimmed with red. Her shirt is wrinkled, skirt all twisted sideways, lipstick slashed into a dark smear over her mouth. She glances at the three of us, declaring, “Fucking pigs,” and storms out of the house.
When we’re alone again, I look at Red and D, smiling sweetly back at them. “Oh, I’m willing to do what it takes.”
I know what I look like compared to these girls. They’re all in heels and tight skirts, low-cut tops, breasts hanging out, hair teased and shiny, lips stained a whole palette of glossy reds. They look ready. Prepared. Eager.
By contrast, I’m wearing a simple sundress and flats, my hair up in a clean ponytail. Just a touch of foundation and blush, nothing more. I must look cute and innocent next to them, like someone who doesn’t know what she’s agreeing to. I look like someone who’ll be scared away. Someone who’ll have to be chased. Someone who’d say no.
“Better than that,” I add, looking away. “I know exactly what it takes.”
“Mary McBeth…”
It takes me a minute to realize the man is talking to me, even though I’m the only one left in the room. The two other girls had both gone in and left—each looking a little numb on their way out the door. I’d given a false name. I couldn’t tip them off that I’m coming in for the interview.
“That’s me,” I say, standing up. He gestures for me to follow him down the hall, stopping before a pair of closed wooden doors. I take a deep, steeling breath. He gives me a final
sympathetic look before turning the knob.
They pay us no attention as he crosses the threshold, each too caught up in themselves to notice who’s entering. I peer around him, getting a good look at the guys who nearly destroyed me. It’s been over three years since I laid an eye on any of them.
All three look a little older. Rath has a leather journal in his lap, scribbling notes inside. Wireless headphones are plugged in his ears. The lines of his jaw are sharper than before, more defined by the dark scruff of his beard, and he has a new nose piercing to go with the two in his bottom lip. His hair is a bit longer, shaggier around the ears, and his body is long, taking up the entire leather loveseat. He still has the same presence I remember from high school, like the light bends around him, making his aura just a touch darker than everything else.
Tristian sits across from him, and time has served him just as well. His cheekbones are sharper than I remember, hair still an immaculate sweep of pale gold. He has a man’s face, now. Full lips and long, dark eyelashes that oppose his fair hair. He’s scrolling through his phone, smirking at whatever he’s perusing. He almost looks nice.
Almost.
If it weren’t for the red handprint blooming across his cheek.
Either Red or D must have slapped him. Internally, I’m impressed. They’d both seemed completely down for this. It’s good to know that even these boys’—these Lords’—biggest fans still have their limits.
I shift my gaze to the third man in the room. Killian, my stepbrother. I almost don’t recognize him. His eyes are cast down at the floor, jaw flexing around something that looks frustrated and impatient. He’s bigger than before, probably a half a foot taller, wider across the shoulders and chest. His shirt looks handmade, fitted perfectly to accentuate the bulging muscles in his arms and chest. Below that is the sprawling canvas of ink that his skin has become. His arms are absolutely covered in tattoos. No single one stands out more than the others, but I can clearly see the word ‘KILL’ spelled out across his rough knuckles. If the boy I once knew looked strong and intimidating, then I don’t even have words for the man standing before me right now.
