Elite

by Carrie Aarons

  She nods. “So, you’ve been to a good party or two? I want to make sure we’re showing you the best of our beer pong and drunk streaking ways.”

  “Actually, I haven’t done either of those yet, but I have met an interesting American boy or two, so there is that.”

  “You’ll find those aplenty, just stay away from the ones who live on Greek row.” She rolled her eyes, and I could see history in that expression.

  “Why is that?” My hackles go up for the fiftieth time since I’d learned more about the social clubs.

  But before she can answer me, our professor starts the class, circling a part of France on her map and going into a discussion about the Burgundy wine region, and its classic Chardonnay and Pinot Noir grapes. I tune her out, scribbling gibberish on the notepad I’ve opened on my laptop. My parents and I vacationed in Burgundy twice, and I could trace those wineries like the back of my hand, not to mention their signature grapes.

  It’s Blair’s half-off warning that rings in my head, and the way her eyes looked haunted as she’d tried to laugh it off. She wasn’t joking, that much I could tell … and for some reason, I trusted what she said. Perhaps I shouldn’t, I still wasn’t familiar enough with anyone here, or their motives, but inexplicably I did.

  And I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I dug deeper, I’d unearth a grave of secrets that no one wanted to come to the surface.

  Eleven

  Colton

  My car rounds the next concrete barrier, my lights illuminating the parking garage rows as I weave to the second level from the top.

  I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t do this … again. The more I did, the more I risked. But I had no choice, I knew that.

  The duffel bag in the back of my car is full of memorabilia. Shirts, jerseys, cards, even a helmet. It should all be in the locker room, or on the shelves in my closet. But instead, it’s here, in a black undetectable duffel bag, in a car driving through a parking garage four towns over from Thistle, in a place where no one ever comes or suspects that Colton Reiter would come.

  I maneuver into the parking space, next to a broken-down truck that has probably been here for a year or more. This parking garage is next to a department store that went out of business with the rest of this ghost town. The people have all gone, except for the homeless or those that can only afford to live here while trekking to jobs in the surrounding resort or college towns. It’s the perfect place not to be seen.

  “You’re late.” A gruff voice sounds from down the row as I open my car door.

  A Chevy Malibu, a nice car but not a flashy one. My agent, the one I’d signed with even before I’d finished high school, had bought it for me. Technically, he wasn’t allowed to do that, but his best client had no money and needed to keep up a certain appearance. So we’d agreed on a nice car, a safe car … one that wouldn’t raise eyebrows but would afford me luxuries like driving myself across the East Coast to college, or taking girls out.

  I grab the duffel and look around for danger, feeling a little more secure with the Swiss army knife in my back pocket. “I wasn’t expecting a snowstorm.”

  It hadn’t been easy to get here with the drifts nearly blowing my car off the road.

  “You live in Vermont, kid … you should expect this. Let me see it.” Mac, the bookie I deal with, holds out a hand.

  We’ve been acquainted for two years now, a “chance” meeting arranged by him after one of my freshman year games where I became the youngest college player to ever score a triple double. He’d already looked up my background, dug into me like no one else had bothered, and he knew my secrets. The things that could destroy me, send me running back home and giving up the bright future I had in store.

  I hand him the bag. “A helmet, some jersey I swapped with other players after games, one of my authentic jerseys from this season which isn’t in the team store yet, some sweatpants and other small items like player cards.”

  He rifles through it, nodding. “This is good, I can give you about five grand for the whole lot. I’ll make ten alone off the football helmet I think.”

  Relief courses through my system, because five grand will take the cross off my back for another two or three months. “Keep a grand of it and bet the scoreline for me in the St. Mary’s game. I’ll keep the score under a hundred, but still net us a win.”

  Mac types away on his phone, recording my bet and locking it in to whatever program he uses.

  “And you’ll filter that merch, clean it, right?” I tap my foot, chewing the inside of my lip.

  “Don’t I always put it through the proper channels? I know how to do my fucking job, kid.” He eyes me, annoyed.

  “Yeah, yeah, thanks.” I wait for him to hand over the envelope.

  It hits my hand, thick with cash, and every cell in my body sings with gratitude. Why, I’m not sure … I should hate this man. But … he makes it possible for me to keep my family alive, supported. And so I have to appease him.

  “I’ll try to get you something else next month, and send me my money after that game.” I point at him, and we both walk away, an unspoken truce in this dead parking garage.

  I know what the penalty is for selling memorabilia. Or your autograph. Or betting on yourself or your team. Even in the pros, it’s illegal.

  I know that I could be suspended, or expelled, or banned from college basketball and the NBA for a lifetime. I’m aware that this all could come crashing down on my head; that an investigation into my dealings and hundreds of thousands of dollars made could send me to prison. The school that I love, that I bleed for, could come under suspicion, that it could affect all of my teammates.

  Of course, I knew these things. But they didn’t matter.

  Because no one knew, would understand, what it was like to try to keep everything standing tall like some prestigious tree. I juggled seven things at once, all the time, and if I couldn’t pay for a certain branch, they’d all start falling like leaves to the ground.

  So I cheated, I shaved points, I stole my roommates sports gear out of their rooms, playing innocent when they couldn’t find something. I sold them to Mac, bet money on myself or against myself. And then I bundled up the cash he gave me and sent it home.

  I’d dug myself so deep into this hole that there was no way out, not until I signed an NBA contract and began seeing real bucks. It was an outdated rule that college players couldn’t use their likeness to gain capital, or that I couldn’t sign autographs for money or book appearances. I wasn’t like my teammates, who had both a mom and a dad who were healthy enough to work.

  So I’d keep risking it all. Because when faced with this choice and the one I’d never want to make, I’d pick this every time.

  Twelve

  Eloise

  I’m finally called to the actual Charter House about two weeks into the spring semester.

  Walking up past the wrought-iron gates, the three-story cream-colored house rises up like some kind of building out of a Homes & Garden magazine. Ivy trailing down the sides, shrubs decorated with twinkling Christmas lights, red lanterns on the front steps, a swing with a plaid cushion dangling from the ceiling of the wrap-around porch. It was something out of a Pottery Barn catalogue, and it made one feel instantly chic.

  The four remaining pledges had been given rule books and syllabi about Charter House, which I’d been studying on and off for a week. Not that I gave much credence to learning their way of life, no … I wanted to be prepared for any kind of quiz thrown my way. This wasn’t so much about fitting in as it was about beating Gretchen and her minions at their own game … just because I needed a little fun and spice in my life.

  The handle is unlocked when I reach it, and since I want a little element of surprise myself, I push it open.

  “I thought I told you, you need to keep her mouth shut. You had one job.” A hissing, angry whisper comes from somewhere within a room on the first floor, and I pause, not wanting to be detected.

  “I did … or I th
ought I did. But she keeps crying to some kind of outreach group, even though she took the money.”

  I couldn’t place my finger on either of the voices.

  “Her very existence could threaten to destroy everything we’ve built, and I’m not about to be the Charter president who couldn’t keep her girls in line.” Gretchen … that was surely Gretchen.

  My heart beat out of my chest, what were they talking about? I slammed the door shut, so that they would know someone was in the house.

  Gretchen and a girl I didn’t recognize came barreling around the corner. The president’s expression is one of being caught red-handed, until she aligns her perfect features.

  “Eloise, so nice of you to arrive early. Come on, let’s gather in the living room and wait for everyone.”

  They didn’t speak another word to me as we waited, but I studied the decor and my phone. The house looked like that Texas woman from that popular American DIY show had hand-picked every item in it. White walls, gray suede couches, white flowers, gold accents, statement chandeliers. It was impressive, and I knew that most college students in the States were not living nearly like this.

  I was scrolling through my Facebook feed, checking up on my old Winston classmates, when the other girls began to arrive, and solidified members of Charter House piled in.

  “Your first task, get a bottle of liquor priced one hundred dollars or more.” Nina smiles like a cat who just caught a bloody canary, not even producing a simple hello before diving right in.

  I roll my eyes, bored at the menial mission. “Easy. One phone call overseas and I’ll have a case of Dom Perignon here in an hour.”

  “You don’t think we’re that stupid, do you? Each girl here has a connection just like yours. No … we picked those of you for this task because of your age.” Gretchen walks around stroking the Hermes scarf tied around her neck, looking like a dominatrix with a whip.

  I twisted a lock of blond hair around my finger and then dropped it, noticing my nervous behavior and not wanting them to catch onto it. My age? So? I was twenty, who cared.

  “Don’t you realize, Eloise? Come on, I thought you were smarter than that,” Nina purrs at me, her curly strawberry blond hair swishing just over her tailbone.

  And then suddenly it clicks. “You have to be twenty-one to buy alcohol in this country.”

  “That’s right!” Ciara, a petite Asian girl with long red nails that could definitely maim or injure, sings in an I-told-you-so voice.

  “So, the four of you will have to go into the liquor store in town and buy a bottle of something worth one hundred dollars or more. Fake it, steal it, I don’t care what you do. Just get it done, or you won’t be asked back.”

  With sisters like these, who needed enemies?

  Abby and I stand outside the doors of Al’s Liquor Barn in downtown Thistle, shivering our arses off.

  “How are we going to do this?” Abby sounds nervous.

  “Well, I already used my fake ID at The Croc, and it was completely fine.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, because the bartenders there want sexy females sitting on the stools, and they aren’t as monitored by the police here. Al’s? They have called the cops on so many people.”

  “All right, well, we’ll play it by ear.” I walk in, not wanting to think too much about this.

  In my life, every time I wing it, everything usually works out okay.

  The doors open with a beep, signaling our entry to the guy at the front checkout. He looks up, a bored townie scrolling through his phone, and we don’t raise any suspicion. Yet.

  Abby is hot on my heels as we walk through the store, and I can hear her breathing wheeze out.

  “You need to calm down. The more you look like a panda about to have a heart attack, the more eyebrows you’ll raise.”

  “Sorry … my heart is just beating so fast,” she whispers.

  We reach the liquor section of the store and browse the shelves. I settle on an expensive bottle of Ciroc-10, and Abby picks up a Johnny Walker Blue Label.

  I go first, setting my bottle down when we make it to the cash register. “Hi, there.”

  I lay on the charm, half-smiling at this chav guy in his dirty, brown hoodie.

  “ID please.” He doesn’t even look up.

  Bollocks.

  I smile brighter, reaching for my wallet and handing over the small laminated card that cost me a hundred and fifty dollars in high school. It hadn’t failed me, although I’d never really had much scrutiny on it. Everywhere I went, velvet ropes were pulled back for those of my kind. It figured that this wanker at a bloody liquor store in Vermont was going to bust me.

  “This is fake.” He holds onto my ID, and my heart plummets.

  “No, it’s not.” I flutter my eyelashes.

  “I ran it through the scanner, and it’s fake. Real convincing to the eye, but the markings are off.”

  He still hasn’t handed it back, and although it won’t be hard to get another one, I don’t want to go through the hassle. Abby whimpers behind me, because she doesn’t even have an ID to hand him. I realize I’m going to have to go the full monty for both of us.

  “We’ll flash you.”

  Abby and the store employee both say, “what?” at the same time.

  “We’ll show you the goods, let you see the bits, do I need to keep going?”

  His eyes flash, but I can see he is interested. “You want to show me your tits … for alcohol?”

  I nod, the scene so comical I have to laugh. “If you give me back my ID, and let us take these bottles without giving us the third degree, we’ll both show you some nipples for … ten seconds.”

  “Eloise …” Abby laughs, but I can hear the panic in her voice.

  For a moment, I’m not sure if he’s going to call the fuzz, or say bloody yes.

  “All right, can I take a picture?”

  Now he’s pushing his luck. “Nope, just a mental one. Are you in or out?”

  Checkout guy looks around. “In … let’s do this.”

  I move quickly, snatching my ID back from his hand and putting it safely in the bag. I pull a wad of bills out of my wallet and throw them on the counter … I’m not going to cheat the system twice by not paying for these bottles.

  “Ready, Abby?” I grab the hem of my sweater, making sure no one is about to walk around the corner.

  “I can’t believe we’re going to do this …” She giggles.

  I laugh too, because this is so ridiculous, but it’s fun. As ridiculous as this task might be, and the Charter girls definitely wanted us to fail or chicken out, I’m actually enjoying the nonsense.

  We count to three and then lift our shirts and bras to the sky, the material obstructing my face. I hope this guy is getting a good hard look, because after counting to ten in my head, I slam my sweater down, grab my bottle, and run out of the store.

  Abby and I laugh like we’re off one’s trolley all the way back to campus, completely breathless by the time we deliver out bottles to Nina and take our victory.

  Thirteen

  Colton

  Another Thursday night, another party at Keil.

  It seemed to be that every night, at least a hundred people and their closest friends made their way to my social club house, invited by someone or other. From there, the drinks started flowing, someone dragged out the industrial speakers, and a full blown kegger was born.

  “Ice luge!” Someone shouted from the kitchen, and I laughed, seeing Baker run in to drink some freezing cold vodka out of the mermaid ice sculpture that had randomly shown up in our house.

  Girls danced on the couches, couples made out on every square inch of wall, and someone was doing a beer funnel under the stairs while another person held it from the second level balcony.

  “So this is university in the States?”

  A familiar, tantalizing voice creeps up beside me, and my cock and I are more than happy to see Eloise standing next to me when I look down. Her blue eyes are
lined with smoky shadow, giving her a goddess look with the blond hair that’s flowing down her back. She’s in a skimpy little tank top and jeans that ride low on her hips, with heels that make her ass look perkier, if it’s even possible. She’s dressed down and she still looks like she just stepped out of the pages of one of those high fashion magazines.

  My mouth waters. “Welcome to the shit show. What are you drinking?”

  “While in Vermont, I guess … I’ll take a beer. The wonkiest kind you can find, in a can preferably.” She smiles, wiggling her fingers at a girl who passes by.

  “Going for real class tonight, then? And making friends, I see.” I head for the kitchen and she follows.

  I fill her beer from the foamy keg while she leans against the counter, and I want to bite that hip that pops out. “You can’t be the only popular one at Jade Mountain, Colton. And yes, I have made some friends, I even had dinner at a friend’s place before I came out tonight. I’m a very likable person if you didn’t know.”

  I like the way my name comes off her lips. “Oh, I know.”

  Griffin passes us, doing a double take when he sees Eloise. “Hi, there, beautiful. I’m Griffin, don’t waste your time with this chump, come talk to me.”

  She laughs, the sound sending zings down to my balls. “I think I rather like you, Griffin. Maybe you’ll spill some dirt on him to me.”

  I steer her away, not wanting our banter to end. In all reality, I’d like to take her up to my room and spend the rest of the night locked in there. “Goodbye, Griffin.”

  “Wait! We need two more for our strip pong tournament!” He stops us.

  Eloise looks at me, her eyes flashing. “Care to play?”

  This could be dangerous, but the asshole jock in me really wants to get her naked. And if this is the way it’ll happen, I’m not saying no. “Do you really think you won’t be naked in under five seconds flat. Remember who you’re playing against … I practically shoot balls into baskets for a living.”