Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel)

by B. T. Urruela

  His friend shakes his head, pleading, “C’mon, man. This isn’t cool.”

  “No, what ain’t cool is your fuckstick buddy here thinkin’ he can run his cockholster and do whatever the fuck he pleases without consequence.” My eyes trail back to the blond kid, who’s disorientated and could now pass for a ginger, there’s so much blood in his hair. “Today, you learn that your actions come with consequences, bitch.” I hit him one more time, hard, and he crumples to the ground.

  “’Ay, Bish. Let’s fuckin’ go, buddy,” Jeremy says, clasping a hand on my shoulder, his eyes darting up and down the road.

  I look once more toward the kid, curled up in a ball on the ground, and then back to his friend. Pointing a finger at his face, I growl, “If he doesn’t remember this tomorrow, you better goddamn tell him what went on here tonight. You tell him the only thing he’s got to blame for his freshly fucked up face is that fuckin’ mouth of his. You got it?”

  The kid nods, eyes wide.

  “Good.” I turn slowly and start walking toward the house, more drinks no longer of any interest to me.

  Jeremy catches up and I can feel his eyes on me through my peripheral as we walk side by side, but I don’t acknowledge him.

  “Fuck, man. Wasn’t that a bit much?”

  I shrug. “Not in my book.”

  Jeremy hesitates, looking behind us and then back at me. “All right, but how ’bout we speed things up, huh? Five-Oh do come through here all the time.”

  I crack a smile, nodding my head before I abruptly take off running.

  He chases after me, yelling, “Goddamn you’re fast.”

  Sprinting at full speed, I’m back at the house in a matter of a minute or so, and I take a second to catch my breath as I wait for Jeremy.

  Once he arrives, he shakes his head and gasps. “Motherfucker, I ain’t in the right shape for this,” he says, and I crack up laughing.

  He follows me into the basement through the side door, our heavy breathing accompanying us.

  “Holy hell, y’all missed a doozy,” Jeremy calls out as he kicks the side of the couch.

  Mac, Carter, and Tim remain passed out, though Jeremy doesn’t seem to notice.

  “I’m tellin’ y’all, our boy here has some stone fuckin’ hands, guys.” He throws a few air

  jabs.

  “Jeremy, who you talkin’ to, man?” I ask.

  He motions toward Mac, Carter, and Tim all cuddled up like newborn puppies, and replies, “Them,” and then looks at me like I’m stupid.

  “Look closer,” I tell him.

  He approaches the couch, his forehead creased as he analyzes the three of them. After a moment, he leans down toward Mac and yells, “Mac!”

  Mac springs to life, his eyes wide as he lets out a yell.

  “You shoulda seen our boy here!” Jeremy says, shadowboxing again.

  Mac flutters his eyelids as he shakes the cobwebs out.

  Carter and Tim rustle in their sleep.

  “What the fuck, Jeremy?” Mac whines. “Why you waking me up, man?”

  “Oh, you were sleepin’?” Jeremy asks with all sincerity.

  Mac grumbles under his breath, lying back down.

  Jeremy takes a few sidesteps and then leans down toward Carter, yelling, “Carter!”

  Carter’s eyes shoot open, and Jeremy continues, “You shoulda seen our boy here. Fucked some kid’s world up.”

  Carter rubs at his eyes with his palms and mutters, “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, you fuckers shoulda seen it.”

  “Can we hear about it tomorrow, maybe? I’m drunk as fuck … and tired.” Carter says, yawning.

  “No, you gotta hear it now. Tell ’em, Bish,” Jeremy insists, hitting my arm with the back of his hand.

  “Yeah, tell us, Bish,” Damian’s voice carries from behind us. I turn and see him coming down the basement stairs through the side door with a date on his arm, both dressed to the nines, and a mess of equally well-dressed people staggering in behind them.

  “It wasn’t anything,” I say, as Damian approaches.

  “Tim, wake the fuck up!” he barks.

  Tim jolts from his sleep. “W-what’s up, D?” he asks groggily.

  “How long you been passed out for?”

  “Uh, shit, I don’t know,” he responds, a look of drunken confusion on his face.

  Damian looks at me.

  “Probably about an hour,” I respond for Tim. “We finished the bottles before he did, though. He okayed us.” I point toward the bar top, where the empty Old Crow bottles still sit.

  Damian eyes the bottles and then turns back toward us.

  A few brothers and their dates take up the couches around Mac, Carter, and Tim as they continue the process of waking up, while a group of other pledges with their dates starts to set up the beer pong table. Music now pumps through the speakers. The room, within a matter of seconds, is completely full.

  Trevor comes up from behind Damian and puts a hand on his shoulder. There’s a drunken glimmer in his eyes. “Did one of you guys fuck up a Beta Chi kid?” he asks, looking us over. He points toward Carter and Mac, who remain half-asleep, their eyes just slits. “Well, obviously, they didn’t.”

  No point in wastin’ any time.

  “I hit some kid. Not sure about him bein’ in Beta Chi though,” I admit.

  Trevor laughs. “Backwards hat, Ralph Lauren polo, seersucker shorts?”

  “Yeah, that’d be him.”

  Trevor laughs again, and this time, Damian joins in. “You did more than just hit him,” Trevor says between laughs.

  I shrug. “How’d you know?”

  “Dude, there’s a whole fucking scene down there right now,” Trevor replies, motioning toward the door. “Cops, ambulance, the works.”

  “Shit,” I mutter, wondering if I may have been seen, or if any video cameras could’ve captured the beating. Suddenly, I’m filled with fear.

  “You’re all good, man. The kid wasn’t even conscious,” Trevor says as if reading my mind. “His friend was just blabbering on about some nonsense … wasted as fuck. The cops were getting annoyed. You could tell.”

  “You think there are any cameras over there that could’ve caught me?” I ask.

  “No way.” Trevor shakes his head. “This is Crescent Falls. The only CCTVs you’re going to find around here are by the bank and post office.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “How are you still standing after all that Old Crow anyway? Let alone able to beat some kid’s ass?” Damian asks.

  “I’ve got an Army liver. A little whiskey don’t faze me any.”

  “A little.” Trevor laughs. “You’re fucking crazy, man.”

  “Good on you, Bishop, for real, but you should take those rings off for a bit,” Damian says, motioning toward my hand, where the rings sit, bloodied still. “Motherfucker had marks all over his face from ’em.”

  I pull the rings off, one by one, and stuff them into my pocket. “Thanks, man.”

  “No sweat,” he says, making his way to the beer pong table.

  “You up for some pong? Brady needs a partner,” Trevor says, pointing toward the table where a group of people has gathered.

  At first, imagining Brady as a partner, my face scrunches with displeasure, but I spot Ember standing next to him, wearing a tight little black dress and spiked Valentino heels, and her hair up in an adorable ponytail. She takes a drink from a pink flask with the word ‘BITCH’ scrawled across it in black rhinestones. My mood and mind immediately change.

  “Yeah, I’m down,” I say, looking back toward Trevor, fighting a smile from forming.

  He nods, the look on his face letting me know he’s on to me, before he abruptly heads toward the table, and I follow behind him, my sightline traveling back to her.

  As I approach, I grab a beer from a cooler in front of the table and stand beside Brady, beginning to fill the cups up with him.

  “You my partner?” he asks.

>   I nod.

  “You fuck some Beta Chi kid up tonight?”

  I nod again.

  “Damn, you fucked him up good,” he mutters.

  “His face looked like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man’s,” Ember says with a chuckle, and I glance over at her. Her eyes are on me, her bottom lip between her teeth before she throws the flask back again. She doesn’t so much as grimace.

  “Nice reference,” I say, smiling.

  “That’s my date, Ember,” Brady says, motioning toward her. “Have you guys met?”

  The way the knowing smile pulls at the corner of his lips lets me know he may be on to me, as well.

  “We spoke briefly last week,” I respond, topping off the last cup and then lifting the beer bottle toward her in cheers before taking a swig.

  “So, then you know she’s a psychopathic bitch?” he asks and bursts out in laughter.

  She immediately sends the point of a Valentino into his shin, and he doubles over with a groan, grabbing at his leg.

  “See what I mean?” He laughs again, though there’s some pain behind it now.

  “I’m a sociopath, you foreskin,” she says, leaning back against the wall. “There’s a fucking difference.” Her disgusted face quickly changes to a smile when she looks back at me.

  “No judgment here,” I say, shrugging and passing her a smile of my own.

  “Doctors get it wrong all the time, Ember,” Brady says, giving his shin one last good rub before standing straight again.

  “Like they did when they looked at that tiny little chiclet in your pants and wrote ‘boy’ on your birth certificate? Any medical professional could tell you that thing’s a pussy, Brady.”

  There’s a chorus of laughter around us, including my own. Brady scowls.

  “Well now, you know better than that. Don’t you, bitch?” Brady says, grabbing a fistful of his dick. The way he says ‘bitch’ this time is different than before. It’s got some bite to it.

  “Whoa, dude …” I take a step forward, but Ember puts a hand up to stop me.

  “What are you grabbing there, Little Brady?” she asks, her eyes still locked on his, but hand still up, keeping me in place. “Thigh? Ballsack? Because I sure as hell know all that shit in your hand isn’t dick. You’d need fucking tweezers to locate that nasty little thing.” She lets out an exasperated sigh. “God, do I know,” she groans, and the laughter around us erupts again.

  He shoots her a glare as we all continue laughing. This girl impresses me with each word that spills out of her mouth.

  “Well, you seem to keep coming back for more, now don’t you?” he asks, glancing at me for some reason before he takes his first beer pong shot.

  She shrugs, taking another drink from her flask as I take my pong shot. “The doctors said I have a streak of self-loathing behavior too,” she says. “Along with the sociopathy.”

  I fight to break my eyes away from her, but my desire for her is unshakeable.

  Brady fumes, but it only seems to excite her more.

  “You seem distracted. What was your name again … Bishop?” Ember asks, just as a ping-pong ball comes bouncing toward my face.

  I catch the ball at the last second as Brady interjects, “I mean, what do you expect from the guy with those saggy tits hanging out and shit.”

  “I have fantastic tits,” she says, drawing her shoulders back and unnecessarily pushing out her already impressive chest. “The best money can buy,” she adds, licking her lips and then flipping him off with a manicured middle finger.

  She catches me looking as Brady’s taking his shot, and she smiles.

  “Why wouldn’t I show them off?” she asks, her eyes still on mine. “Bishop, don’t you think I have nice tits?”

  I shrug. “I sure as shit ain’t blind,” I say, glancing at her and smirking.

  Brady shoots me a glare.

  “Don’t even think about it, pledge,” he says, squaring up his shoulders. “That’s mine.”

  He points to Ember and she rolls her eyes.

  “Yeah, you see the fucking ‘owned by douche bag’ sign on my forehead?” she chides.

  Brady looks at her intensely, his jaw clenched. He throws the ping pong ball across the

  room.

  “I’m ready to go to bed now, Ember. Come on.” He jabs a finger to the floor beside him

  before he slowly starts to walk away.

  “No, I think I’ll stay, but thanks for the gracious invitation.”

  All eyes are on the table. The music is playing, but it might as well not be. The argument is the only thing anyone is listening to, I can tell because I can see the whites of every last damn eye in here. They’re all on us.

  Brady turns.

  “Ember”—he looks to be a few seconds from foaming at the mouth—“you’re my social date, I’m the social chair. Get your ass to my room… now!”

  “Dude,” I say, putting a hand up to calm him down and taking a step forward, but keeping my features and tone light. “I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you. I barely know this young lady right here, but what I do know is it sounds like she’s having a good time and doesn’t want to go to bed with you, so…” I shrug. “I mean, dude, leave her alone.”

  Brady looks over at Trevor and then back at me. He points his finger at me and says, “This ain’t the last of it, pledge! Not even close!” He storms off, stomping up the stairs to the first level where the bedrooms are. After a few moments, a slamming door echoes throughout the house.

  I look across the table at Trevor and Damian, who both seem to be confused and a little annoyed.

  Trevor abruptly lifts his hands and yells, “Party isn’t over, bitches!”

  He slams back a beer before he and Damian, both noticeably fucked up, wander away from the table with beers in hand.

  I look over at Ember and mutter, “Well, I guess that’s the end of the game.”

  “Looks like it. I’d play you, but I don’t toss balls. I only gargle them.”

  I hesitate before saying, “Talk normally. Dear God, woman.”

  She takes a deep breath and replies, “Thanks for sticking up for me,” resting her hand against my arm for a moment before drawing it back to her side. Her tone, for the first time tonight, seems genuine.

  “I know you could’ve handled it yourself. I just got sick of hearin’ him talk.”

  “Oh, I totally could’ve taken care of him myself,” she replies, holding herself higher and squinting her eyes like she’s Dirty Harry. “I know some shit.”

  “Some karate shit?”

  “Some kung-fu shit.”

  “Some Muay Thai shit?”

  “Some Oolong shit.” She karate chops the air.

  I laugh. “I think that’s a kind of tea. And no matter the fightin’ technique, I still got superior strength and knowledge … seein’ as I’m a man and all.”

  She leans back, curling her lip. “Ha! You are a misogynist.” It takes me a moment to remember the misogynist topic from our previous conversation. “You must be on something,” she adds.

  “I’m just sayin’, it’s scientifically proven.”

  “In what world?”

  “Our world. There are some websites I could show you.” I pass her a playful grin and a wink.

  She laughs, putting a palm to her forehead. “You’re an idiot.”

  “No, I’m drunk.”

  I smile, and she leans in closer.

  “You trying to stay here the whole night?” she whispers.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I just figured, why not go somewhere a little quieter?”

  “I can’t have sex with you, Ms. Azar.”

  She swats my arm. “What makes you think I want to? And how do you know my last name?”

  I motion toward no one in particular. “I talked to the guys … about you.”

  Fuckin’ Old Crow. My brain feels like boiled dog shit.

  “And what makes you think I want to have sex with you?
” she asks.

  “Well, I mean …” I raise a finger, eyeing it drunkenly. “One, I’m not too bad lookin’.” I put up another finger. “Two, you’re soooooo fuckin’ sexy. Like, holy fuck, you walk into a room and every other girl can just piss off. You’re the only one that matters.”

  She scoffs, waving me off.

  “No, I mean it!” I say in my most convincing tone.

  “And three?” she asks, and for a moment, I’m confused.

  “Huh?”

  “You have three fingers up,” she says, giggling and pointing to my hand, which comes into focus, and I see I am, in fact, holding three fingers up.

  “And three … I’m so drunk it could be considered rape.” I pat her arm, adding, “And I don’t want to see you go to jail. You’re a good kid. I kind of like you. And you’re too pretty for an orange jumpsuit, though, I can only imagine you’d pull that off even.”

  She shakes her head, taking one more drink of her flask before stowing it in her purse. “Well, now you’re just pandering.”

  “I don’t pander, young lady. I only speak truth.”

  Pointing a finger at me, she says, “I really hate you for what I’m about to do,” before she digs around in her purse, eventually pulling out a cocktail napkin and a tube of lipstick. Opening the lipstick, she looks at me with a raised brow, as if she finds me humorous. And hell, maybe I am doing something funny. I don’t really know. I can’t feel my face anymore.

  After a few moments, she closes her lipstick and puts it back in her purse. She hands over the cocktail napkin, and I snatch it from her, trying hard to focus my vision as I read.

  By the time I look back up, she’s on her way to the door. I let her go, realizing I should probably stop at the 7-Eleven down the road first, so I can freshen up. My mouth tastes like unwashed asshole. All I can taste is cheap whiskey and cigarettes. All I can think about is the way her ass sways in that dress.

  Watching her and acknowledging the way she stirs the desire up in me, I become acutely aware of just how hard being good tonight will be. And just how easily my awkward, drunken ass could fuck this up.

  AFTER STUMBLING INTO 7-ELEVEN AND buying everything needed to re-hydrate, I wash my face and brush my teeth, sprucing myself up in the bathroom before I continue on the one-mile trek toward sorority row.