Greek: A New Adult College Romance (Palm South University Book 7)

by Kandi Steiner

  But reliving it with a room full of lawyers and detectives, it was more real than it ever had been.

  The questions they asked, the notes they took, the looks they gave me… it was the perfect combination to split open the carefully constructed cast I’d worn all this time. I relived it all — the feeling of being unknowingly drugged, the confusion of being dragged away from the ballroom, the fear when I felt them all moving in on me, their laughter and soft words of assurance that everything was fine like the most vivid nightmare.

  Candice, my lawyer, begins to silently cry when I tell the room how Landon slapped me when I tried to run for the door, how he threw me on the pool table hard enough to knock the breath from me, how he wasn’t the first to molest me — but rather, he held me down, his hands bruising my arms as one of his friends took the first turn.

  No, not one of his friends. Not a nameless brother.

  I list out their names in order of how they raped me — Nick Simmons, Daniel Cole, Landon Turner, and last, Aiden Harrison.

  There is a young girl with the lawyers of the boys who raped me. From the way she’s taking notes and listening intently to every move Landon’s lawyers make, I gather that she must be an intern or a new employee.

  Her eyes well with tears, too, when I tell the room how I cried through the first one, begging them to stop, but that when Daniel pushed inside me and I knew there was no stopping them, I fell silent. I numbed out. I grasped onto the only survival mechanism I could in that moment, which was to just hold onto that pool table and wait for them to be done, wait for them to finish.

  And silently pray that they would leave me alive in the end.

  I didn’t know if they would, at the time. I wondered if they’d kill me, if those terrible moments of embarrassment and pain would be my last.

  And in that moment, telling that room full of people what had happened to me, I knew every detail was true — down to the painting of a mermaid sitting on the edge of a sailboat, which I had stared at while they raped me, holding her gaze, letting the anchor she sat beside anchor me, too.

  The room is quiet when I finish, and I hold my head high, looking each of them in the eye. I answer all their questions — clarifying timelines and terms, repeating names, explaining again why I didn’t go to the police immediately, why I didn’t get a rape kit, why none of my friends knew until very recently.

  By the time we finish, I’m so tired I could pass out on the spot.

  “Thank you, Erin,” Candice says, her eyes still red as she leans over to squeeze my wrist.

  My mind goes fuzzy after that, a blur of legal jargon as they explain to me that the process of arresting the offenders is complex, and this is only one step. They inform me that should Landon or any of the other offenders try to contact me, I should call the police immediately, and that they’ll keep me informed on what happens next.

  After a formal goodbye handshake with each of them, I excuse myself, and as soon as I’m out of the door, my legs begin to shake, all the adrenaline that had been coursing through me leaving my body at once.

  I stare at the tile floor as my heels click along it, and in its natural fashion, my mind begins to erase the last couple of hours. I feel it almost like a black wall of steel slowly stretching toward the sky and blocking that part of my memory, as if to say you don’t need to see this, let’s just leave it in the past where it belongs.

  When I make it to my car, I shut the door and stare at the steering wheel for a long time. I’m supposed to go to therapy, but all I want is to go home.

  No, all I want is to go to Clinton.

  But I know after such a traumatic event, therapy is the best place I can go. I know I can’t just leave it all buried, can’t ignore it, can’t pretend like nothing is happening or never happened in the past. I have to face it, sit with it — no matter how uncomfortable it is.

  So, I fire up the engine and make my way across town.

  I’m about five minutes late to the meeting, thanks to South Florida traffic and a random thunderstorm. So I rush inside with my hair a frizzy mess, not bothering with an umbrella now that it’s just a drizzle. I take my usual seat as quietly as I can, trying not to interrupt the person talking — a young boy, newer addition, talking about his addiction. I give him my full attention the moment I’m seated, even as I smooth out my damp clothes and try to fix my hair a bit.

  When he finishes speaking, Jackie, our therapy leader, smiles and thanks him for sharing.

  There’s a brief moment of silence, some of the other attendees offering words of encouragement to the young man, and I take the opportunity to fully settle in, letting my gaze wander the room to see who’s here tonight.

  And that’s when I see him.

  How I walked in without sensing him, without feeling those brazen eyes on me, I don’t understand. I could blame it on the afternoon I’ve had, I suppose, but even that shouldn’t have kept me from noticing my ex sitting in the same chair he used to, right across the circle from me.

  Smiling.

  Smiling, as if he never left.

  Smiling, as if he didn’t leave me with nothing but a note to explain.

  Smiling, his eyes heated, ankle crossed over his knee and leather-jacket-clad arms folded across his chest like he owns the place.

  Like he still owns me.

  Gavin’s sky blue eyes watch me unabashedly as I gape back at him, and it’s only when Jackie says my name that I snap out of what I convince myself must be a daydream.

  “How are you this evening?” she asks.

  “I…” I swallow. “I’m fine.”

  Jackie gives me a sympathetic smile. “Do you want to talk about what happened today? I believe you told us last week that you were meeting with the lawyers and detectives. How did it go?”

  I open my mouth to answer, to do what I came here to do, but then my eyes snap back to Gavin, and I have to zip my lips closed again to keep them from trembling.

  He’s not smiling anymore.

  I want to scream at him. I want to demand answers. I want to punch him in his stupid face and throw him out of my safe place and tell him to never come back.

  I want to ask him why he left.

  I want to tell him his letter wasn’t enough.

  I want to make him feel the way he broke me.

  But more than anything, I want to get far, far away from him.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head and immediately reaching down for my purse. I don’t offer any other explanation before I’m heading for the door, and I don’t take my next breath until I’m through it.

  I know Jackie will tell the room that it’s okay, that I’ll be alright, that she’ll check in on me — and she will. I know I’ll have a call from her likely as soon as session is over. She’ll move on and ask someone else to share because that’s what has to be done.

  She won’t press me to stay.

  That’s what I love about her.

  The rain has mostly stopped when I push out into the evening air, warm and humid, the sky quickly fading from gray to deep navy as night settles in. I fumble in my purse for my keys, the familiar beep beep of my car unlocking hitting my ears right before an even more familiar voice calls my name.

  “Erin,” Gavin repeats when I don’t stop, and his footsteps splash through the puddles behind me as he jogs to catch up. “Hey, please, wait.”

  “You don’t get to ask a damn thing of me,” I say, whirling on him. I point my finger right in his face — his face that is far too close for my taste. “You don’t get to show back up here, in my space, in my life. I don’t know why you’re here, why you’re back, and I don’t want to know. Okay? So just fuck off.”

  The words shock me more than him when they roll off my tongue with ease, but I hold my chin high as I turn on my heels and set for my car again.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I stop at the sound of those words, but I don’t turn. I just stand there with my hand on the smooth metal handle of my car door, waiti
ng.

  “I’m sorry I left like that. I’m sorry I did that to you. I’m sorry for…” He sighs. “For everything.”

  Tears burn my eyes.

  “I can explain, if you’ll give me the chance.”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Please,” he begs, and I feel his hand warm on my shoulder before I shrug it off.

  I turn on him then. “How dare you,” I spit.

  “Don’t be like this. I care about you, Erin. I know you still care about me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  Even as I say the words, they burn as only lies do. I do care about him. I do want him to be okay.

  But I also want him to leave me the hell alone.

  “I know I hurt you, but if you just give me another chance—”

  “No,” I say, more firmly than the last time. “I’m sorry, Gavin, but I’ve moved on and you should, too.”

  I open my car door, slipping inside and slamming the door shut. Gavin stands there dumbfounded for a moment, the drizzle soaking his shirt and jacket before he taps on my window.

  I grit my teeth but roll it down just an inch.

  “Moved on, huh?” he asks, hurt evident in his voice. “It’s Bear, isn’t it?”

  I don’t answer.

  Which is answer enough.

  He laughs. “Well, that was fast.”

  “Goodbye, Gavin.”

  “Wait,” he says, slipping his fingers in the gap my rolled-down window has made.

  He must trust me an awful lot more than I trust myself to think I won’t smash his fingers.

  “It doesn’t have to be romantic. It doesn’t have to be anything more than…” He pauses, blowing out a breath. “Can I take you for a drink? Please.”

  I swallow, my chest tight and heavy with all the things left unsaid and unfinished between us.

  “Maybe another time,” I whisper, but when our eyes meet through the crack, I know he sees what I’m really saying.

  Never going to happen.

  His jaw is tight when he withdraws his fingers, and I roll up my window and peel out of the parking lot without a glance in my rearview mirror.

  I don’t even tell Clinton I’m coming, just burst through his front door when I finally make it to his house. He’s on the couch watching a basketball game, a full plate of chicken and veggies in his lap.

  One look at me, and the plate is tossed aside.

  He runs to me, swooping me into his arms as the first sob chokes through me.

  “It’s okay,” he promises. “I’m here.”

  And with that permission, I fully let go.

  “THIS IS FUCKING HORSE shit!” I bang my fists on the wooden table for emphasis, rattling the entire thing and causing half-a-dozen students to startle at the sound.

  “Shhh!” the librarian immediately scolds, her brows folded hard as she shakes her head. She points her bony finger at me as one last warning — likely because this isn’t my first outburst in the last four hours, but she’s saying it’ll be my last, or else.

  I murmur an apology before letting my head fall into my hands again, digging my palms into my eyes enough that I see colors behind the lids. I suppress the urge to groan, to growl, to flip the fucking table and try to force a calming breath.

  This is supposed to be the easy part.

  It’s November. I’m supposed to be coasting after fighting with the alums and the exec board, supposed to be watching all the fruits of our labor come together, supposed to be taking my hands off and letting these brothers ride their metaphorical bikes on their own, supposed to be more focused on planning what Cassie and I will do when she visits for Thanksgiving than anything Alpha Sigma related.

  Instead, I’m nose deep in books far too thick with words far too big explaining policies far too complicated — all because the alumni brothers decided to be twats.

  “Wow,” a voice purrs over me. I look up to find Chandler smirking, her fingers toying with a few pages of one of the books spread out around me. “I haven’t seen this much fun since senior year Spring Break.”

  I try to smile, but know it falls flat as I slump back in my chair.

  Chandler chuckles, shrugging off her small backpack and tossing it on the table before taking the chair next to me. She peers over at the book currently splayed at the center. “Aspen University Student Organized Event Policies,” she reads, arching a brow at me.

  “Don’t even ask.”

  “Too late.”

  I sigh, sitting up a little straighter as the back of my hand slaps against the open pages. “I’ve been working with the brothers on an event that will hopefully help put them back on the map — an Anything But Clothes Bubble Bonfire.” I pause when Chandler has to fight back a smile. “Hey, they came up with it, alright? And honestly, as cheesy as it sounds, they’ve been working their asses off and it’s going to be a kickass event. They got a popular band on campus to come play, have an epic set up for the bonfire, all these different seating areas and photo ops, plus a foam pit.”

  “Girls do love a foam pit.”

  “And the theme being Anything But Clothes? Can you even imagine?”

  She laughs. “I know me and my sisters would have been all over that.”

  “Everyone on Greek Row is talking about it, and the guys are so stoked.” I sigh. “They’re going to be crushed when I tell them it can’t happen.”

  Chandler frowns. “Why not?”

  “Apparently, there’s some policy that states that student-run events can’t have any kind of open fire. I mean, I get it,” I added. “It’s Colorado. And even though we’re out of fire season, I’m sure they don’t want some fraternity event causing the next wildfire that runs rampant across the Rockies.”

  “Is it an open fire?”

  “I guess,” I say, waving my hand at the books. “That’s what the asshole alumni guys I’ve been working with explained to me this morning. I’ve been digging through these books all afternoon trying to find the exact law, but so far, nothing. I figure there’s got to be a loophole, or some way we can still have the event but be in line with the policy.”

  Chandler frowns even deeper, and then she scoots her chair in closer to the table and digs her laptop out of her bag. I watch as she types in the university website, fingers clicking away a lot faster than I can type.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Helping,” she says easily.

  “You don’t have to do that. It’s Friday, I’m sure—”

  “I’ve got nothing to do,” she says with a look that tells me she’s not too happy about that fact. “Besides, you helped me once. Remember?”

  Her eyes find mine, and the smile we share is one I imagine only kids caught between being in college and being an adult could really understand.

  “You can leave at any time,” I say as I turn back to the books.

  “Shut up and keep digging.”

  Silence envelops the library again, other than the soft sounds of students whispering, typing, and flipping pages. Every now and then, Chandler will pause me to show me something, or I’ll show her something, but we never quite find what we’re looking for.

  Until…

  “Aha!” she says — loud enough that the new librarian on shift gives her a look. She apologizes before moving her laptop over closer to me and whispering, “Look at this.”

  I follow her cursor, reading to myself. When I finish, I sigh, pushing back in my chair again.

  “So it is a real rule.” I shake my head. “I mean, not that I doubted it, but I hoped there would be a way. Stones around the fire or… or… a number of fire extinguishers on hand, buckets of water, something.”

  “Adam, you didn’t read it all.”

  I frown, looking at a smiling Chandler before I lean forward again. She lets me take the laptop from her, and I scroll down until I see the starred amendment at the bottom.

  The amendment that says bonfire events may be approved by the Student Union so long a
s the following requirements are met and sufficient paperwork is provided.

  The article goes on to list out the requirements — and just like I thought, it’s all things we can manage.

  “I fucking knew it!”

  “Shhh!”

  Chandler and I bite back our laughs as we apologize, yet again, to the librarian. Then, we huddle closer as we look through the website.

  “Okay, so we just need to make sure the fire is contained within a permanently structured area — easy enough, we could have it be a new addition to the house — and have a hose hooked up to the house for emergency.” I shake my head, and when I turn to Chandler, we’re nearly nose to nose. “Holy shit, you figured it out.”

  “We figured it out,” she says, and as if she realizes how close we are, she clears her throat and sits back in her chair. Her hand sweeps out over the screen. “So, once you get those things taken care of and provide the paperwork and proof? You’ll be good to go.”

  “Thank God,” I say, pushing her laptop back toward her. “Can you email that to me? I’ll get started in the morning.” I pause. “After a round of very stiff drinks tonight.”

  She chuckles. “You got it.”

  “Thank you,” I say earnestly.

  “No problem,” she insists, her cheeks turning a soft shade of pink.

  “Is there any way I can repay you?”

  “Well, I kind of owed you, anyway,” she reminds me. “But… if you insist, how about not letting me hang out alone on a Friday night?” Her eyes meet mine then. “I’m so sick and tired of being the old girl on campus with no real friends.”

  I bark out a laugh at that. “You are far from old.”

  “Tell that to these eighteen-year-old bitches.”

  Another laugh from me before I look at my phone, frowning at the time. “I’m supposed to have a video chat date night with Cassie in about an hour.”

  When I look up at Chandler again, it’s just in time to see her playful smile slip, her eyes going back to her laptop as she sends off the email before closing the lid. “Oh,” she says, forcing a smile again and waving me off. “Well, consider us even, then. I’ve got some shows to catch up on, anyway.”