LUKE
There’s no real vote. Nobody else steps up at the last minute to challenge me. After weeks of competing with Keaton for a position I only want because it saves me rent money, I’m dubbed president of Alpha Delta. By pure default.
Resentment roils in my stomach as I sit through the rest of the meeting. Somehow I manage not to vault over the coffee table and drive a fist into Keaton Hayworth’s jaw.
What the fuck game is he playing now? My hands are trembling with anger, so I press them against my thighs and mentally urge Reed to quit babbling. I don’t care that Hell Week starts tomorrow, or that we’re running low on cleaning supplies. I need answers from Keaton Hayworth III.
But once Reed calls the meeting to a close, it’s impossible to get Hayworth alone. Judd and his other football buddies drag him into the kitchen, and their hushed, angry voices tell me they’re not thrilled by his sudden decision, either.
Jaw tight, I keep an eye on the kitchen doorway, but it doesn’t look like they’re wrapping up.
“Mr. President!” Jako comes over and slaps me on the shoulder. “We did it!”
“No, we didn’t,” I mutter. “I won by default.”
“Who cares? We still got the end result we wanted. Come on, let’s go out and celebrate. A bunch of us want to take you to Cinnibar—our treat.”
I draw a steady breath. It’s a nice gesture, and any other night I’d jump at the thought of free booze. But Keaton and I have unfinished business. I open my mouth to lie, then realize there’s no reason to. “I’m waiting to talk to Hayworth,” I tell Jako. “I want to know what the hell he did that for.”
Jako purses his lips in thought. “Yeah, it was kinda weird. But…you won. Who cares why he dropped out?”
“I care.” Beyond Jako’s shoulders, I see several of our brothers milling about, waiting on us. “You guys go on ahead,” I urge. “I’ll meet you there after I talk to Hayworth.”
“Fine.” He claps my shoulder again. “But don’t take too long.” To everyone else, he shouts, “See you all at Cinnibar. Last one there buys the first round!”
I’m nearly killed in the resulting stampede. Despite the plethora of rich dudes in this frat, none of them want to part with their precious allowances. Meanwhile, Keaton and his pals are still arguing in the kitchen. When I creep closer, I hear Judd growl, “Not my president!”
I choke down a laugh. Oh for fuck’s sake. I haven’t even taken office yet and I’m already a hashtag.
They’re taking forever. So long, in fact, that I pull my phone out of my pocket and open Kink.
SinnerThree: I need to talk to you. Now.
No response, obviously, but I’m gratified to hear the ding of a notification in the kitchen. Good. I hope someone asks Keaton who’s messaging him. He’ll be too embarrassed to admit to using Kink, and speed up his conversation.
But that doesn’t happen. Instead, to my disbelief, Keaton, Judd, and their friends exit the kitchen and brush right past me as they head toward the front door.
“Hayworth,” I growl at his back. “A word?”
His broad shoulders stiffen. He glances over, his expression a bit sheepish. “Can’t. We’ve got somewhere to be. Congrats on the presidency.”
And then he’s gone.
I stare at the door. Is he fucking kidding me? I deserve answers, damn it. He can’t just drop out of the election at the last second without explanation. I furiously type on my phone again.
SinnerThree: You’re such an asshole.
As expected, no response.
I shake my head a few times, standing there in the middle of the living room. The silence is slightly disconcerting. Every single frat brother has either gone off to Cinnibar with Jako, or has left with Keaton. And I can’t even enjoy the solitude, because I’m still fuming over Keaton’s actions.
He handed me the presidency. Why? Was it pity? I mean, it had to be. He’d looked genuinely surprised to find out the prez gets a free room, and he knows I don’t have much money. Obviously he put two and two together. Before LobsterShorts, I would’ve assumed that adding two and two would be a difficult feat for Mr. Jockface. But I know better now. Keaton isn’t a dumb jock. He’s a biology major, and he’s far more intelligent than he lets on.
I trudge upstairs, the resentment still churning in my gut. I text Jako to let him know I’m just changing out of my sweats and then meeting everyone at the bar.
I tackle the first part, throwing on a pair of ripped jeans and a black sweater, but my phone buzzes before I can leave the room. It’s a Kink alert.
LobsterShorts: How am I an asshole? You wanted me to bow out.
SinnerThree: I wanted you to bow out when you broke the rules basically twice in ten days like an asshole. Not out of pity.
And that, right there, is what’s really bugging me. Keaton was a lock for this gig. I would’ve received a fair amount of votes, sure, but we both know I still would’ve lost.
SinnerThree: I don’t need your pity, dude.
LobsterShorts: It wasn’t pity. I never wanted to be prez.
SinnerThree: Bull.
LobsterShorts: Truth. Look, can we talk about this later? I’m with the guys.
SinnerThree: Yeah, I know. I saw you flee, remember?
LobsterShorts: Wasn’t fleeing. Judd wanted to go out. Pajama party thing at Beta Kappa.
SinnerThree: You’re going to a sorority party? Seriously?
LobsterShorts: Sorry. I did suggest to them that we should stop at Cinnibar. Jako texted us to come. But Judd’s…how do I say this tactfully…displeased by the election results.
Meaning, he refuses to support my reign by celebrating with me and the rest of the guys. Not that I’m celebrating. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, sulking.
SinnerThree: I’m displeased too. That wasn’t cool.
I don’t get a reply this time, even after five minutes tick by. I imagine Keaton and his boys are surrounded by a slew of tipsy, PJs-clad sorority girls right now, so I force myself to jog over to the bar.
Cinnibar’s is the most upscale bar on campus. The other two are primarily visited by the football crowd (hard pass) or the crew team (snoot alert), but Cinnibar offers a chill crowd and a laidback atmosphere. In fact, we’re the only frat members in the place tonight.
For the next hour, I drink with my frat brothers, awkwardly accepting the praise, happily accepting the free drinks. Even some of the guys I’m not close with, like Paxton Grier and Edwards, are being nice to me, though in Paxton’s case it’s because he’s trying to convince me to set him up with one of my “stripper friends.” I’m trying to dodge his incessant pleading when I get a message from LobsterShorts.
“Hold that thought,” I tell Paxton, all the while praying he just drops it. Which is looking likely, because I barely blink and he’s lumbering off toward a trio of cute brunettes.
LobsterShorts: I’m sorry you’re pissed, ok? But it wasn’t pity, or some evil scheme on my part. I never wanted the job. My dad wanted it for me.
His confession chips away at some of my bitterness. LobsterShorts—I mean, Keaton—mentioned on numerous occasions that he has a difficult relationship with his father.
Maybe his dad did push him into running for president. I mean, that gift card stunt Mr. Hayworth pulled last week reeked of desperation.
LobsterShorts: And yes, the free room thing cemented my decision to bail, but trust me, bailing has been on my mind since the race started. If anything, knowing you’re strapped for cash was the excuse I needed to back out.
Sighing, I type, Fine. I believe you. But you could’ve warned me you were gonna do that.
LobsterShorts: Didn’t know I was going to do it until I did it. Anyway. Congrats.
SinnerThree: Thanks.
I put the phone away and accept the fresh pint glass Ahmad places in my hand. I’m on beer number three, but my tolerance is high so I barely feel buzzed.
Fuck. I won the election. It’s finally sinking in now that my anger as dissolved. I don’t have to pay rent next year, and the weight that suddenly lifts off my chest has me sagging forward in relief. Christ. This is going to help. A lot.
“Your first order of business is clear,” Ahmad is saying. Unlike me, his tolerance is shit, and he’s visibly inebriated. Bright red cheeks and extreme clumsiness.
“Is it?” I laugh.
“Yup! Another dinner party,” he declares. “That food, dude! Soooooooo good!”
Jako snickers from the other side of the booth. “Wait, you want another dinner party for the dinner? Not the girls?”
“They can come too, I guess. But only if they bring the cheese balls.”
We all howl in laughter. But my amusement is cut short when my phone buzzes again.
LobsterShorts: This party blows. How’s the bar?
I frown at the screen. Why is he messaging? He’s at a party. His hands should either be holding a drink or a hot chick, not his phone.
SinnerThree: It’s awesome. Feeling nice and buzzed. And how could a sorority PJ party blow? Aren’t they all in hot lingerie?
LobsterShorts: They are. But…I dunno. I can’t hit on any of these women, Sinner. It feels wrong. Like I’m trying to replace Annika.
I find it interesting that he still calls me Sinner. I guess he’s also having trouble merging my two identities. Sinner and Luke Bailey. LobsterShorts and Keaton Hayworth. There are four people in this equation when there should only be two.
SinnerThree: She dumped you, dude. You need to deal with that fact and move on.
LobsterShorts: I will. But who says I have to deal and move on tonight?
SinnerThree: Good point. With that said, a rebound never hurt anyone. I’ve heard it makes people feel better.
LobsterShorts: Nah. I told you, it feels wrong to hook up with one of these girls. Especially a sorority girl. I’d be thinking about Annika the whole time.
LobsterShorts: No women for me tonight.
SinnerThree: How about men?
Motherfucker.
Why did I send that? It sounds—no, it is—flirtatious. And I shouldn’t be flirting with this guy. I’m still kicking myself for kissing him last night. That was a stupid move.
But the problem with hitting Send is, the other person still gets the message, because you fucking hit Send.
LobsterShorts: Is that a dare, Bailey?
Oooh boy. He used my name. Shit just got real.
SinnerThree: I’m just saying, if hooking up with a woman tonight is just going to remind you of Annika, maybe do it with someone who can’t remind you of her.
LobsterShorts: Someone with a penis?
SinnerThree: Why not?
LobsterShorts: Someone like you?
I stare at the screen for so long that I draw the attention of my booth mates. “Bailey! Yo!” Hoffman calls. “Paxton paid good money for this round of beers. If you’re not gonna drink yours, pass it over.”
Paxton balks. “Hey! If he doesn’t want it, why do you get it? I paid for the fucking thing!”
I absentmindedly slide my pint glass toward Paxton. “Have at it. I’ll be right back.”
Ignoring Jako’s curious gaze, I hop out of the booth and amble toward a quiet spot at the end of the bar. My heart is beating faster than normal, and there’s a stirring in my groin that’s making it hard to concentrate. I reread Keaton’s last message, mulling over how to answer.
A good minute passes before I force myself to admit the truth, but once I do…there’s no debate about what to write back.
SinnerThree: The house is empty right now. I dare you to meet me there in 15.
I’m on pins and needles now. My pulse races, blood drums in my ears. My body feels hot and tight, and there’s no way I can just go back to the table and drink another beer.
I power down my phone, so I won’t be tempted to stare at the screen.
And I slip out and head home.
