Part I

“There is something about falling in love

with a beautiful mind ...”

-Cindy Cherie, Poetess

College. Senior Year.

1

Jared

Testosterone and entitlement.

The air is thick with both.

And weed, which in my experience, transcends all socioeconomic barriers. The everyman drug. Even this tight circle of overgrown trust fund baby boys draws and blows from the pile of bags I tossed onto the large mahogany table at the center of the room.

“This is good shit,” Benton Carter says, proffering the joint to me. “Want some? You did bring it.”

“You mean I fetched it,” I say low enough for only him to hear. “And I’m just about over being the resident lapdog at Prescott’s beck and call.”

One glance to the head of the table confirms William Prescott wears that smug, self-satisfied smirk that seems permanently tattooed on his pasty face. He catches my eye, raises his joint, and gives me a thumbs-up.

“Ask me where he can put that thumb,” I tell Bent.

“That is not how you get in, Foster.” Bent shakes his head, but an irrepressible grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. He has no more tolerance for that asshole than I do. “Prescott’s the chapter president. Final say rests with him on whether you get in or not.”

Getting “in” seemed like the best thing I could do for my future when Bent told me about The Pride, a secret society akin to Yale’s Skull and Bones. It’s a national network of good ol’ boy bluebloods who look out for one another in business and pleasure. Only Ivy League and the most elite private schools like ours, Kerrington College, have chapters. Admission only comes “through blood or bond.” You’re either granted admission as a legacy connected through a family member or you get in because a member sponsors you. When Bent, whose family goes back four generations in The Pride, approached me about joining, it seemed like a fantastic idea. For someone as ambitious as I am, it was a gift from the gods. After months of doing the chapter president’s bidding, I’m ready to punch that gift horse in the mouth.

“You’re close,” Bent whispers, casting a furtive glace around the table at the other members still smoking, drinking, and posturing to impress each other. “Perform this last rite Prescott assigns tonight, and you’ll be in.”

“You do realize last rites are generally followed by death.”

“It won’t be that bad. Just . . .” Bent stares at the table instead of at me. “Just don’t lose it when he tells you what it is. Do this one thing, and you’re in.”

Based on the crazy shit Prescott has already had me do, this one thing could be anything. Breaking into a professor’s office to steal his laptop and an exam. Exhuming a grave to retrieve a Prescott family heirloom. Dismantling the bell in the campus tower. Not to mention buzzing all my hair off. What any of it has to do with so-called brotherhood and character, I have no idea. I think Prescott knows every time I smile to his face I’m mentally flipping him off, so he searches for the most risky, asinine tasks he can come up with. By luck of birth, he ended up in this position, and from my perspective, he is the least likely to succeed without the inherent advantages of his daddy’s money and The Pride’s fraternal network. I’m not the most submissive lion in the so-called pride on a good day; I’m nearly at the breaking point after three months of bowing and scraping to this tool.

“Whatever he wants me to do, I hope it’s quick or that it doesn’t have to be done tonight.” I glance at my watch. “I have a study group in less than an hour across campus.”

Bent narrows his eyes at me through a cloud of smoke.

“A group?” he asks. “Or a girl?”

I stiffen and cock a brow, silently asking what the hell. In the smoke-filled basement of Prescott Hall with these bluebloods, Bent may be a Pride legacy and I a mere prospect, but he knows I remember him as the lanky kid I met at freshman orientation. We’ve been tight ever since, and I’ve locked the door on most of the skeletons in his closet.

My face blank, I toy with an unlit joint. “What girl?”

There’s a war between reluctance and loyalty on his face before he releases a smoky sigh.

“Prescott knows you don’t study at the library.” The words slide from one barely open, hardly moving corner of Bent’s mouth. “He knows you study at the laundromat.”

His face and eyes sober.

“He knows about Banner.”

The air chills around me and a queasy feeling grips my stomach at the mention of Banner Morales. Dark, bottomless, espresso-colored eyes fringed with long, thick lashes. Full lips tinted by chocolate and roses. High cheekbones and one dimple on the right side. A bold nose dusted with exactly seven freckles. I blink to clear the mental image, sharpening my focus on my best friend’s worried expression.

“What does she have to do with this?” I strip my voice of the emotion struggling to break the surface. “She’s just my study partner.”

Bent tips his head and gives me a knowing look.

“Foster, come on. It’s me.”

I haven’t talked to anyone about Banner. How I think about her all the time. And how she makes me laugh without even trying. How my dick gets hard when I smell her shampoo. All of this is fodder for merciless ribbing, so no. I haven’t talked to anyone about Banner, except Bent, and even then not much. I maintain a blank face and level my mouth into a flat line.

“Dude, I’m clueless,” I answer evenly.

“Yeah, well you—”

“Benton, what are you and the prospect talking about?” Prescott demands from the other end of the table. “Care to share with your brothers?”

He addresses the question to Bent, but his eyes latch on to my face, and I don’t look away.

“Nothing,” Bent answers easily, lifting the joint to his lips. “Finals.”

“Ah, finals.” Prescott lopsides a phony grin. “That’s right. I remember from his application that our prospect is summa cum laude.”

“Not yet,” I remind him. “One more semester.”

It’s a miracle my GPA hasn’t suffered with all the ridiculous errands and stunts Prescott has assigned me.

“But it’ll happen,” he replies, his smile several degrees warmer than his frosty blue eyes. “You’re a smart guy. Here on scholarship, right?”

The silent implication: how else could I afford Kerrington? It’s true. My dad is retired military and my stepmother is a teacher. I wasn’t raised with the luxuries these guys took for granted growing up.

But I will have them. Unlike these spoiled brats, I’ll earn them.

All of this runs through my head while Prescott and I stare at one another, neither showing our hands or our thoughts. Bent said Prescott “knows” about Banner, which can’t be good. I’m waiting to hear what this last rite of passage is, and it better not have anything to do with her. She’d laugh in my face if she knew the idiotic shit I’ve been doing to get into some secret society that will supposedly pave my way in the future. Banner doesn’t do shortcuts and doesn’t look for fast tracks. She is a fast track. The girl’s certified Mensa, for God’s sake.

Her brain was the first thing about her that turned me on. We faced off once in our Debate & Public Speaking class. Needless to say, she shredded my every argument and ripped apart each of my rebuttals.

I could barely walk back to my seat my dick was so hard.

“Are you ready for the final rite?” Prescott asks, reminding me that unfortunately I’m still here.

“Sure.”

I’ve found saying less is always better with Prescott. He’s like a parasite leeching any word he can exploit or drain.

“You’ve met and exceeded every challenge so far,” Prescott says. “For your final rite, you will fuck a fat girl.”

A stunned silence spreads around his words like spilled milk. Really, that’s not entirely accurate since I’m the only one who seems stunned. Every other face around the table reflects excitement, discomfort, curiosity, or some mixture of all three. Even Bent watches me impassively, waiting for my response.

They don’t have long to wait.

“What the hell?” A scowl breaks out over my face like a rash. “You want me to fuck some random fat girl? I don’t understand what—”

“Not random,” Prescott interrupts. “Banner Morales.”

Fury sets a small blaze at my feet, licks up over my legs and the rest of my body. My heart is a lump of coal catching fire in my chest and burning until it hurts. So I’m basically a chimney with no chute.

“Repeat that.” My voice drops to a deceptive quiet that doesn’t bely the emotions roaring inside of me.

“I said you have to fuck a fat girl,” Prescott reiterates, his face an unreadable mask, but his eyes telling; vibrant, cruel blue. “Banner Morales.”

I’d appreciate the irony of this final challenge being something I fully intended to do anyway if it wasn’t so insulting to one of the few people I not only tolerate but really like. If it wasn’t intended to hurt her.

“I won’t do that.”

At least not for him. When I fuck Banner, it’ll be purely for me and for her.

“And she’s not fat,” I snap.

Prescott’s abrupt laughter shatters the quiet only he and I break at intervals while everyone else watches.

“We’ll say pleasingly plump if that makes you feel better, Foster.” His mouth zigzags into an icicle smile. “Either way, fuck her or you won’t get in.”

Later, when logic and a cooler head prevails, I’ll make sense of this, but right now I only know that Prescott, for some reason, wants to demean Banner and thought he would use me to do it.

“The only fucking there will be, Prescott,” I grind out, “is however you manage to fuck yourself.”

Bent groans behind me—the first sign that he is, unlike the rest of the waxen zombies assembled around the table, alive.