Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel)

by B. T. Urruela

  I move my hand to the nape of his neck, wanting to say something but left completely speechless.

  “Ugh,” he groans, sitting up straight again. “Sorry, man. Not trying to be a bitch.” He lifts the beer bottle and shakes his head. “Fucking alcohol.”

  Giving him another good squeeze, I say, “Hey man, don’t apologize for shit. Not a goddamn thing. We’ve all got our crosses to bear. It’s tough to share some of that shit, so I appreciate you makin’ the effort. And honestly, I knew from the moment I met you that there was somethin’ different. A deeper connection. Some commonality, you know? We’ve both suffered. I mean, really suffered. More than most of these fuckers at this school. We’re survivors, man. Remember that. And don’t beat yourself up too much about this stuff. I know it’s hard, but this wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t.”

  Carter takes a deep breath, a bit of resolution taking up his features as he finishes off his beer. “How did you get past all the shit you’ve been through?” he asks.

  I shake my head, responding, “Honestly, I don’t think that shit ever goes away, man. I sure the fuck ain’t gotten over the things I’ve been through. I’ve snuffed them out enough to exist in the present as best I can, but the experiences and thoughts, and all the shitty emotions that come along with them will always be up there …” I motion to my head. “Swirlin’ around, and just fuckin’ waitin’ to turn any normal day to shit.”

  “Do you take anything to maybe help with it?”

  “I’ve been on a few things over the years, but I could never stick it out. It’s nice to feel level-headed and all, but not when the tradeoff is losin’ all passion and personality. I felt like a zombie. And don’t even get me started on Zoloft. I could fuck for hours on that shit and still not come.”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

  “Yeah, maybe not if my own hand couldn’t even cut it. A man needs to clean the pipes.”

  He laughs, nodding his head in agreement. “Yeah, that sucks.”

  “I don’t know if pills are the answer anyhow. I mean, what do they really do? Block out the shit you’ve been through? Block out the negative memories and emotions? You can block them out for a spell, but that doesn’t mean they ain’t still there. Don’t mean they won’t come back and bite you down the road. I don’t know, I’ve just always liked facin’ that shit head-on. Grab that pint of liquor and ice cream, throw on a comedy, and just fuckin’ embrace the shit. Sometimes you just gotta accept the crappy days for what they are and hope tomorrow brings you better.”

  “How often is tomorrow better?” he asks, and I hesitate briefly, thinking on his question.

  Finally, I say, “Not as often as I’d like. It’s hard most days. I have to remind myself often how much worse it could be. How much worse it has been.”

  He nods. “Yeah, I think that’s why I started keeping it to myself back in the day. I always got the feeling people thought I was digging for sympathy, and that’s the last thing I want. I hate that look of pity people give me.”

  “Yes! I get that same damn look when people ask about my eye. Like, ‘fuck you, take your pity elsewhere.’ I’ve got buddies who look nothin’ like they used to, thanks to the unrelentin’ fuckin’ brutality of fire when it meets skin. Guys that’ll shit in bags for the rest of their lives. I can’t feel sorry for myself, so I refuse to let others feel sorry for me.” I hesitate for a moment before adding, “It’s a tough battle to fight on your own, though. So just know you can talk to me whenever, and I’ll never view it as a ploy for sympathy. Not ever. That’s not how friendship works. And what you’ve been through …” I shake my head. “That’s some heavy shit. You deserve to unburden yourself sometimes.”

  “I appreciate that, Bish. And same goes for you.”

  Realizing I haven’t heard a peep from Mac since my conversation with Carter started, I crane my head toward the bar and eye it curiously.

  “What the hell happened with Mac? Did he sneak out of here while we were talkin’ and I didn’t notice?”

  Carter looks over too and shakes his head. “I don’t think so. He was being stupid loud. We would’ve heard him.”

  “Yeah, he said he was stayin’ the night here too,” I say, standing and making my way over to the bar.

  As I approach, the first thing I notice is the mini-fridge door wide open, and then Mac’s hand covered in a pile of toppled beer bottles. He’s on the floor in front of the mini-fridge, his hand still inside. He lets out a light snore.

  I laugh loudly, motioning for Carter. “Dude, you gotta see this.”

  Carter approaches my side and cracks up upon seeing Mac in his current state.

  “Fuckin’ lightweight.” I laugh, making my way around the bar and crouching down next to him.

  “Hey Mac, get up, dude.” I nudge his back and he stirs but doesn’t wake. “Mac!” I repeat, louder now, and he raises his head slowly, looking at his hand first, buried in cold beer bottles at the bottom of the fridge, and then over at me through the slits of his eyelids.

  “My hand’s cold,” he mutters, laying his head back to the floor as he shivers.

  “That makes sense, considerin’ your current predicament,” I respond, laughing. “Get up, dude. It’s time to get you reacquainted with the semen couch.”

  IN THE WEEK SINCE OUR last pledge challenge—Big Brother Night—I’ve learned more about the fraternity and its hundred-year history than I have anything else in any of my courses. Being an undecided major means I get to knock out all the prerequisites I’ve yet to take, so my list of courses is like a recipe for fucking boredom and failure. And with having to learn so much fraternity bullshit and continuing our cleaning duties around the house, I’ve looked forward to the opportunity to get out of the house, see my dudes, and maybe drink a little … or a lot. Who the fuck knows when it comes to DIK pledging.

  We’ve been waiting in the basement now—the four of us—for nearly fifty minutes, but at least we weren’t made to link up tonight. Instead, we were greeted down here by Brady, in all his hungover glory, who told us to relax until the night began.

  Carter has looked nervous all evening, and though I’ve asked him and been denied a few times already, I feel the urge to ask him again what tonight will entail. I know he knows. I can see it in his eyes. And it doesn’t look good.

  He seems to notice what’s about to come as he puts a finger up and digs into his pocket, his eyes on the other two as they fuck around near the bar. They’ve already checked the refrigerator three times for beer that isn’t there, and now they’re convinced there’s some liquor hiding somewhere in the utility closet.

  “Hey,” Carter whispers, motioning to his jeans. He pulls a pint of Captain Morgan from his back pocket. “You’re going to want to have some. Trust me. Just don’t let the guys see. I don’t have enough for all of us.”

  “Tell me what’s goin’ on, man,” I plead, reaching for the bottle. He covertly places it in my hand, looking toward the others again as they continue digging through the closet. “And where the hell did you get this?”

  “I just got a fake ID in the mail,” he responds, his eyes still watching the closet closely.

  I take a long swig, and then another for good measure before passing it back over, then he takes one himself. He grimaces as he swallows it down.

  “I’ll tell you when we get closer to it,” he says, his face scrunching in displeasure. “You just want to drink as much as you can right now.”

  “You’re freakin’ me the fuck out, Carter. And you could’ve goddamn told me sooner so I could’ve brought my own liquor.”

  “I know. They just really fucked with me hard about talking. They freaked me out.’

  “Well, fuck … pass that shit back over before the guys get done fuckin’ around.”

  He hands it over and I take another big gulp before giving it back. He pockets it just as Mac exits the closet and groans, Jeremy just behind him.

  “Fuck!” Jeremy says, shrugging with his palms in t
he air. “Ain’t no liquor anywhere. This is some bullshit.”

  “Carter,” Jeremy says as he approaches us. “What the shit is goin’ down, man? You been weird all fuckin’ day.”

  “No idea,” Carter responds, shrugging. “We just have to wait and see.”

  “Is there gonna be any more of that gay shit?” Mac asks, pretending to swat a paddle.

  Carter laughs. “I’d expect a lot more of that,” he responds. “That’s just fraternity life for you.”

  “Blame the forefathers, right?” I ask.

  Carter nods. “Exactly.”

  “I can totally see them in their pantaloons, spanking each other with paddles,” I quip.

  “I don’t think they wore pantaloons in the Twenties.” Carter laughs.

  “Fuck off. Don’t ruin my joke.”

  As the words leave my lips, the basement door opens, drawing our attention. Only Brady and Trevor come down, which surprises me, as I heard way more people clodhopping about upstairs. They’re both dressed in suits, hair purposefully disheveled.

  They scale the steps as Trevor says, “Alright, pledges. It’s time to start your third challenge. You’ll follow us out to the van, and we’ll be taking you to a separate location.”

  “What about the alcohol?” Brady says, nodding his head toward us.

  “Oh yeah,” Trevor responds, snapping his fingers. “You all remembered not to drink anything today, right? Tonight’s challenge is going to require you to be one-hundred percent sober.”

  We all nod our heads.

  “Alright, let’s go then.”

  We follow Trevor and Brady to the van and hop inside, eventually making our way down frat row toward Main Street. Just as we reach it, Damian makes a sharp right turn, pulling into a lot at the back of some building, amongst the trash dumpsters and discarded pallets.

  “What the fuck,” I mutter, taking in our surroundings, as Trevor turns back toward us.

  “You guys follow Brady inside through the back. I’m going around front. I’ll see you in a few minutes,” he says, finishing in a singsong tone, a grin on his face as he opens the door and hops out. Brady follows suit, motioning for us to follow him as he heads toward the back door.

  He holds the door open for us as we empty the van and approach. As we pass through the doorway, he says, “Let this be the only time I hold the door open for you bitches.”

  It’s the ‘bitches’ that earns him a sneer as I follow Jeremy inside, Carter just a few steps behind me. Brady’s expression doesn’t change, though; the cocky smirk remains.

  What I would give to beat that look off him.

  “Line up in front of that door,” Brady says, pointing toward the only door in front of us, as white as the painted cinderblock wall surrounding it. There are a few mop buckets, some mops and brooms, and a pile of boxes scattered around the narrow back room. Music plays from just past the door, so loud I can make out the song, though I can’t decipher the lyrics.

  SexyBack.

  Brady follows us in, shutting the door behind him and cockily striding over to us as we wait beside the wall.

  “You motherfuckers got no idea what’s coming tonight,” Brady says, laughing. “I hope you’re ready for this shit.”

  The music softens a little and an announcer’s voice replaces it, too muffled to understand. Brady laughs again, shaking his head. Mac gulps and I can feel the tension Carter carries in the air. I’m about to beat the secret out of him to be quite frank.

  “No. Fucking. Clue,” Brady continues, still pacing with his hands on his hips. As he studies us in a superior manner with that contemptuous grin on his face, the door abruptly opens.

  Trevor comes through, an excited look in his eyes and a wide smile on his face. With him, comes flashing dance lights and music that deafens. There’s a wraparound bar, and it looks to be filled, but beyond that, I can’t see much. Trevor places his hand on Jeremy’s shoulders and motions his head toward the club.

  “You’re up first, pretty boy,” Trevor says, guiding Jeremy toward the entrance with an arm around his neck.

  Jeremy grins. “Let’s get ’er done,” he responds as they disappear into the club, the door shutting behind them, snuffing out the strobe lights. There’s high-pitched whooping on the other side, and I look to Carter with a quirked eyebrow.

  “That sounds like a lot of girls,” I mutter, and Carter just nods, a nervousness in his features.

  “What’d you say, Bishop?” Brady barks.

  “I said ‘It sounds like a lot of chicks in there.’”

  “Yeah, it does,” Mac agrees, wide-eyed and nervously scratching at his patchy beard.

  “Oh, there definitely is,” Brady says, a giddiness to his tone I don’t like much.

  After a nerve-racking minute of silence between us, my focus darts toward the door as it opens again, and Trevor comes through, the smile even wider now. “It’s your turn, Red. Bishop, you’re on deck,” he says, gesturing for Mac to come through the door.

  Mac hesitates, taking a gulp as he looks back toward us with fear in his eyes. “What’s happening?” he asks Carter, who, in turn, just cracks up.

  “Come on, Mac,” Trevor says, nudging Mac through the door.

  The song cuts out and an announcer says something over the PA system before a new song begins—Pony—and the door closes behind them.

  I gasp, eyes going wide, mouth slack. “We’re fuckin’ stripping, aren’t we? Aren’t we?” I shout, the red flags finally visible.

  Carter nods, letting out a bit of nervous laughter.

  “Butt fucking naked,” Brady laughs.

  “Fuck me,” I groan, putting a hand out toward Carter. “Give me the fuckin’ bottle.” I snap at his back pocket, but he doesn’t go for it right away, instead looking toward Brady as if he’s been caught stealing.

  “What bottle?” Brady asks.

  “My bottle. I made Carter hold it for me.” My eyes remain on Carter and I gesture for him to hurry up and hand it over. “And now I want it back.”

  He hesitates, looking at Brady and then at me again before he finally digs it out and hands it over.

  “You weren’t supposed to drink alcohol today,” Brady snaps, a lip curled back.

  “No offense, Brady, but I’m a grown-ass man, and if I gotta strip for a bar full of people, I’m doin’ it with some liquor in my fuckin’ system. And a lot of it.” I unscrew the top and toss the bottle back, killing about a quarter of it. I take an extra-long drink since I know Brady is watching me intently. Once I finish, I hand it over to Carter. “Want some?”

  Carter looks at Brady and then me, and then the bottle, before he reluctantly takes it from me and throws it back.

  “You fucks!” Brady growls. “You’re so fucked for this, pledges. Get ready for some serious fucking punishment.”

  Carter saves just a little bit for me, handing the bottle over and then shrugging as Brady still glares at him.

  Brady scoffs as I kill the remaining rum. Just as I toss the empty bottle to the floor, the door swings open for a third time. The whooping and cheering on the other side has risen a few decibels as the song fades out. Trevor eyes the bottle on the ground and then up toward us, laughing.

  “Smart motherfuckers,” Trevor says, grinning as beads of sweat take up his brow line now. His eyes fall on me. “You ready, boss?”

  I shrug, my heart pounding in my chest, but my face reading Sunday morning. “Let’s do it,” I say, walking toward him, enjoying Brady’s defeat.

  Trevor puts a hand on my back, leading me into the packed club. He laughs as the announcer shouts into the mic, working up an already worked up crowd. The spacious bar is filled top to bottom with frat brothers and their dates, dressed up and all their eyes on me. Mac is in the process of getting his clothes back on at a table by the bar, he looks to be cursing under his breath, which brings me a smile, and Jeremy whoops it up for me from beside him, clapping his hands wildly.

  I flip him off.

  L
eaning in, Trevor says, “Just down to your boxers, man. Until the song stops. For them right there.” He points toward the dance floor where the crowd is dispersed and an opening awaits. At the back of the dance floor, seated in chairs that line the wall, four girls clap and cheer for my approach.

  My heart fucking pounds.

  “Everybody give it up for Biiiiiiishop!” the announcer shouts over the PA system as Trevor pats me on the back one last time before he scurries off toward some brothers beside the dance floor. The unmistakable beats of Sugarhill Gang’s “Apache (Jump On It)” overwhelm the sound system. I take a deep, steadying breath. My head starts bobbing instinctively as I get closer to them. My thoughts pass to Fresh Prince of Bel-Air … Will and Carlton … and I smile, letting the thoughts comfort me, while moving my head a little more with the music. As I approach the seated girls and scan their line, there, at the very end, is Ember, looking on with intrigue and gleeful anticipation.

  I swallow thickly, ignoring the anxiety that creeps into my mind, and, instead, I focus on the rum and how light it’s made my feet feel—how loose it’s made my hips. As the liquor warms my skin, the inhibitions I normally possess snuffed out like a trapped rat, I move my body. It’s not some Magic Mike shit, but I can hold my own.

  As the chorus hits for the first time, I find myself in front of the row of chairs and pretty much slow fucking the air in coordinated movements. Some of the girls get into it, dancing right along as I strip my t-shirt off. One of them looks a little nervous, her eyes flitting from me to the bar to the crowd and then back, her bottom lip between her teeth as if she’s punishing herself for looking at my naked torso, and it’s her I focus on … well, her and Ember. I know Ember’s watching. And maybe I’m saving her for last for a reason. Maybe I want to toy with her.

  I pull my belt off next, immediately wishing I had spent much more time at the gym than I have been, as I’m half-naked now, in a room full of people, and sucking in doesn’t seem to be doing the trick. Then again, I’ve always been harder on myself than I should be.

  The crazy thing is, I don’t feel any of them behind me. It’s as if they aren’t even there; my focus is locked on the four seated before me. There’s an electric ball of energy in my chest, right at the base of my throat, and I wear a smile from ear to ear that lets me know I’m doing something I never thought I would … and loving every minute of it, if I’m being honest with myself. The jolt of pleasure you get when you push yourself outside of your comfort zone is unlike any other.