Walk of Shame

by ANDREA SMITH

  WALK OF SHAME

  by

  Andrea Smith

  Walk of Shame

  Copyright © 2015 by Andrea Smith

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. Except as permitted, under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior express, written consent of the authors.

  Violation of copyright, by domestic or foreign entities, is punishable by law, which may include imprisonment, a fine, or both.

  This book is intended for mature audiences only.

  Editor: Ashley Blashak Stout

  Formatting: Erik Gevers

  Prologue

  Kindergarten Graduation - St. Albert the Great Grammar School, Cranston, RI

  “Why are you pouting, Peyton?”

  “Because I didn’t win the shiny statue for best student in the class,” I grumble, crossing my six-year-old arms in front of me stiffly. “Brandon Brewer did. I’m just as good as he is, Daddy, even better because I got all E’s on my report card and he got two N’s.”

  “Honey,” he says, “sometimes it isn’t about the grades alone, do you get that?”

  I feel my forehead crease in confusion, because I don’t get that at all. I thought the whole point of school was to get the best grades possible, and I have done that all year long. I am smarter than dumb old Brandon Brewer.

  “No,” I reply looking over at my father who was starting the car. “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, sometimes it’s about other things like attitude or leadership qualities. You know, your teacher, Mrs. Hollister, said lots of good things about you. She gave you a lot of praise when I talked to her this afternoon before the ceremony. Maybe Brandon has improved more over the school year and she wanted to recognize him for his progress? Things might come easier to you than they do to him, and maybe that meant he had to try harder, do you see what I mean, honey?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut so my tears don’t escape. I turn my head so my father doesn’t see that I’m about to cry. But I’m more mad than sad about not winning the statue that Mrs. Hollister had kept on her desk all year for us to see.

  I knew exactly where I was going to put it in my bedroom so that I could look at it from my bed. I had even moved my teddy bear over to make a place for it. I know my father is honest to me about everything. He always has been. “I guess so,” I sigh finally, “but I heard Mrs. Hollister tell Jordan’s mommy that she always picks a boy as the best student of the year because they are born leaders, is that true?”

  I turn to look over at my father again and by the twitch in his jaw, I can tell that he’s mad. Is he mad at me for asking?

  “Listen to me, Peyton. That is old-fashioned thinking. Maybe it’s time that Mrs. Hollister retires if she truly believes something that stupid. Being a leader has nothing to do with whether you’re a boy or a girl. Leaders come in all colors, shapes, sizes, and genders. Please don’t ever forget that, do you hear me?”

  I nod, watching him and, at that moment, I realize that my father isn’t mad at me at all. “Is being a boy better than being a girl, Daddy?”

  He sighs and runs a hand through his thick, dark hair. “It’s not supposed to be, honey. It’s not supposed to be that way.”

  Chapter 1

  Fifteen Years Later

  Hardwick College, Cambridge, MA

  I cross my legs and, for the third or maybe it’s the fourth time, I tug at the hemline of the short cotton skirt I’d selected. I am definitely regretting the choice as it clearly exposes more thigh than I had anticipated. I shift uncomfortably, leaning in a bit closer to the polished mahogany desk of Dean Fitzhugh, who, despite his attempt at appearing engrossed in my outline, periodically allows his eyes to drift to my exposed thigh.

  He clears his throat again, finally closing the folder and placing it on the blotter before him. His eyes flicker upward to my face, and he removes his wire-rimmed glasses, pulling a pressed handkerchief from his breast pocket, and wiping the lenses slowly. Several moments of silence pass and, finally, he speaks.

  “Ms. Lang, you understand the only reason I accommodated your request for this meeting was as a favor to Dean Rothschild. We go back to our own college days at Hardwick and, well, he spoke very highly of you and of your accomplishments at Ratliff. He mentioned you are in the top 5% of your graduating class, in both of your majors. Having said that, this is a very…unusual, not to mention unorthodox proposal you’ve brought to me. We are, after all, a week into the semester.”

  He looks across the desk at me, waiting for a response I suppose. “Please, call me Peyton,” I reply, shifting in my seat. “I do realize that this means catching up on the honors classes I’ve applied for here, but it’s not insurmountable, Dean. My GPA speaks for itself.”

  “Notwithstanding that, Ms.---I’m sorry, Peyton,” he continues, “there is the matter of your curriculum here. It’s a bit controversial…”

  “I summarized in my hypothesis and supportive outline my purpose and how it supports my senior thesis statement. You see, Dean Fitzhugh, I really need this. I’ve already applied for an honors program in graduate school at UC Berkeley next fall. Your approval will likely clinch my acceptance there.”

  He is silent for a few moments. “Why do I feel as if you have some feminist axe to grind?” he asks, peering at me over the rim of his glasses. “With your GPA and dual major, I’m at a loss to understand what you hope to reveal with this particular behavioral analysis, for lack of a better term. It seems as if you have the makings for a great career and a bright future, Peyton,” he replies, smiling.

  “That’s exactly what this is, Dean. A behavioral study where I have pre-plotted certain behaviors based on historical and current data. Call it feminist if you must, but the truth is that only 4% of Fortune 500 companies have a female CEO, and only 7% have a female on their Board of Directors.” I pull a photo collage from my folder and slap it down in front of him. “Take a look, Dean Fitzhugh, these female CEO’s could have been on the cover of Cosmo back in the day. Surely you recall Hillary Clinton’s trip to Bangladesh for humanitarian purposes last year. It was newsworthy, not because of her purpose for being there, but because she was pictured without makeup.”

  Finally, he releases a sigh and slips his glasses back on so that he can sign his approval of entrance as a part-time student at Hardwick for my senior year. I have dual school status, how cool is that? It’s a complicated issue, so suffice it to say that in doing this, he has also granted me permission to carry out my well-defined experiment, which I have no doubt will support my senior thesis objective statement. He slides the paper across his desk and gives me a stern look.

  “I still think your concerns are overblown, but I suppose someone majoring in Sociology and Political Science might be compelled to draw such generalizations. I will have to hand-carry your admissions documents through the process in light of your part-time status here at Hardwick. We need to ensure your transcripts transfer properly to Ratliff prior to graduation. I don’t have to tell you that your utmost discretion is required once you start penning your senior thesis.”

  I give him a slight smile. “Absolutely, Dean. That goes without saying. You have my word that names of professors, students, and educational institutions will bear no resemblance to the reality of my investi
gative process.”

  He nods, and stands up, extending his hand to me. I shake it, and notice he gives it a soft squeeze, holding it a bit longer than necessary. “I wish you luck with your endeavor, Ms. Lang. Enjoy your classes here at Hardwick.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, and as I turn to depart he calls after me.

  “And please, please make sure I don’t regret approving this.”

  I wait until I’m outside of his office, in the dimly lit hallway of this albatross of a building before I release a relieved sigh. That went much easier than I had hoped.

  I smile as I step outside into the late summer sunshine; it’s still warm and humid, but in a few weeks, the welcome crispness of fall will be here. My favorite season of all.

  I have some shopping to do before my classes at Hardwick begin next week. But first I need to familiarize myself with both the campus and the college community. It’s still New England, but Hardwick is a much bigger campus than what I’ve been used to. It’s only twenty miles from Ratliff, but it’s definitely more testosterone-induced. I can see that even though the semester just started, there is an abundance of well-muscled guys jogging, biking or simply roaring by on motorcycles in tight tee shirts.

  Men.

  I’ve got no axe to grind with men…per se. I mean, it’s no fault of theirs the way that American society seems to give them free passes, preferential treatment in the business world, top government positions, and professional sports teams, not to mention rock star status for just about anything in the music and entertainment industries.

  But it’s more than just that. My in-depth research has shown that women who actually do make a hairline crack in America’s glass ceiling do it in one of two ways: they either have to adapt masculine behavioral traits with respect to political posturing, social interactions, and communication style – and even then, they need to latch on to a male mentor; or they have to have superior intelligence to their male counterparts, but not dare show it, and look like a cover model. Let’s not get into the whole sleeping their way to the top ruse because I truly believe that is a total myth. Let me bask in that for now.

  Truth. I swear.

  I’m determined to prove this point with my senior thesis, based on my final year of college, using experimentation that I’ve spent months planning. Thanks to Dean Rothschild pulling some strings on my behalf with the Dean here at Hardwick, my project will come to a successful and hopefully, well-rewarded conclusion.

  I find my car and head out to travel the fifteen miles back to the apartment I share with my best friend, Eva, near Ratliff. Classes at my home college don’t start until next week. I will be spending mornings at Ratliff and three afternoons a week at Hardwick. I took two online courses over the summer, so that juggling between two campuses wouldn’t be overly taxing my senior year.

  I’m finally home and finishing up my shopping online. Yeah, I’m a geek that way. In fact, I’m just about ready to submit the last of my new wardrobe order when my roomie barges in, tossing her oversized handbag onto my bed as she dives down next to it. “So fucking glad that shift is over,” she says, rolling onto her stomach. “It’s dead until classes start.” She perches her head on her hand and watches as I finish up with my order. “Watcha doing?” she asks, batting her thick lashes at me.

  Eva and I have roomed together since freshman year when we shared a dorm room. In our junior year, we got a tiny two bedroom apartment, which was all we could afford in Bainbridge. Neither one of us comes from money. Both of us have worked part-time jobs during the school year and full-time jobs over the summer to afford our housing.

  “Actually, online shopping at a specialty store,” I reply, giving her a wicked smile but no further details. “And then I’m off to Goodwill for the rest.”

  She jumps up to stand behind me as I finish the order, trying to see what kind of specialty I’m talking about. I push submit before she can see the items I’ve ordered. “Nosy much?” I tease

  “What the hell is Incog?” she asks, furrowing a brow.

  “A specialty shop,” I reply.

  She gives a sigh and plops back down on the bed. “Be that way. Hey, I bet it’s for my upcoming birthday, isn’t it? You shouldn’t have spent so much, though. Jesus, are you suddenly rich?”

  “No, just frugal,” I reply, giving her an eye roll. “I save my money.”

  She gives me a gratuitous smile, “Oh, right, Peyton. Hey, I’m not a shopaholic or anything. I work with what I have, but hell, tips are sparse during the summer. Not everyone rakes in the tips like you.”

  “TIPS,” I say, “To Insure Proper Service, remember? My customers at Big Daddy’s appreciate that.”

  Eva rolls her eyes, “Doesn’t have a thing to do with the tits and ass you’ve got going on, does it? I mean, shit, you get triple the tips that I do! Hell, you only have to work two nights a week and I have to work four to make ends meet!”

  I laugh at her, shaking my head in denial. “Quit bitching. You do all right and get your share of attention, and you love it. That’s why you work those nights.”

  “I like attention, that’s true enough,” she admits, “but it still sucks.”

  Eva is a knockout she just doesn’t know it.

  “Speaking of which, when the semester starts do you wanna pick up my Saturday night shift? You can probably drop two of your weeknights and still be ahead,” I offer.

  “Seriously? Why?”

  “I talked to Dean Fitzhugh this afternoon, over at Hardwick. I’ve been accepted there for some of my senior honors classes. I’ve tucked enough money away that I won’t need to work both Friday and Saturday. So I’m giving up my Saturday shift. I need to focus on my senior curriculum and thesis project.”

  “You kill me,” she says, shaking her head. You’re such a nerd. Why the fuck did the good Lord waste that face and body on a geek chick is beyond me.”

  I laugh at her description of me, but I’m not gonna lie, she’s on target with it. The truth is, my looks have served their purpose for now. As a result of coming in first place in the Miss Rhode Island pageant, I had secured my scholarship to Ratliff. The fact that I had not gone any further in the competition was a blessing, because I was all about the studies after that.

  Oh, that’s not to say that I wasn’t offered modeling contracts and even scouted for a screen test, but there was no way I was putting my education on hold. I knew what I wanted and it hadn’t changed in the years since kindergarten graduation.

  “Is that a yes?” I ask.

  “Absolutely it’s a yes! You’ll clear it through Max?”

  Max is our manager at Big Daddy’s, and the truth is that I have him wrapped around my little finger, but I never abuse it.

  “Already done,” I reply. “Now let’s go work out.”

  “Boo,” she grumbles, but she does launch herself off the bed and follows me out of my bedroom. “I can hardly wait until classes start so I have an excuse not to put my body through this regimented torture.”

  “Just for that, drop and give me twenty,” I order, turning to face her. The look on her face is priceless.

  “Bite me, bitch,” she replies, jogging past me and sprinting towards the door of our apartment. “Last one to the gym is an old maid!”

  She sprints out the door, and I don’t even try to catch up. There are worse things in my mind than ending up as an old maid.

  Chapter 2

  Two weeks later.

  Hardwick University

  Weston Matthews picked up his smart phone, and glanced at the time since there were no clocks visible in ‘Penny’s Den of Academic Torture.’ Fuck. It had only been twelve minutes since he last checked, even though it felt like hours ago for shit’s sake.

  He heard her throat clear. “You know, Matthews, if you focused more on the study guide in front of you and spent less time checking the time, you might actually absorb some of the data.”

  Penny’s nasally voice caused his jaw to clench. He bit back a smart ass
retort. She was, after all, his tutor. And yes, she was being paid to ensure he passed Early American Lit. Weston needed to ace this class or his eligibility was going to shit. Playing hockey for Hardwick was the only redeeming feature of college life. Well, that and getting his share of coed ass.

  So, there were two good reasons to persevere in this class. It wasn’t like he was flunking the rest of his classes, but they required no effort and he liked it that way. Now he seriously wondered if it was even worth it. The list of reading she’d just handed him, along with an outline to make sure he stayed on track with the schedule she developed seriously sucked.

  Weston gave her what he had come to know was his signature sexy, panty-melting smile, though he wondered if it was wasted on this nerd. She was a tough nut to crack, but hell, it was worth a try, right? “Hey, it’s Friday, doll. Thought maybe we could cut our session short just for today since I’ve got plans and I’m sure you do as well.”

  Penny didn’t even bother to look over at him. Apparently that smile had been wasted on her.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  “We have the study room until five o’clock, and we’re going to use every minute of that time. Trust me; you need it based on your sample quiz results. Weston, did you even bother reading The Land Before Her?”

  Okay, now the bitch was just pissing him off. Weston had at least given her the benefit of the doubt in presuming that she had Friday evening plans, but his guess was that if she did, it only involved her cat or, at best, her battery-operated boyfriend. “Yes, Penny,” he replied sharply, “I did read it but, to be honest, it was a major snooze fest.”

  She pursed her lips and tried to stifle a smile. “Sorry, I tried my best to find a special edition with pictures just for you, but alas, none was to be found.”

  “Bahahaha!” he burst out sarcastically, and tossed her a hateful glare. “Why in the fuck did you pick this book anyway? There are plenty of others to choose from on Professor Lindquist’s syllabus. I mean, shit, why in the hell do I want to read some nineteenth century prairie fantasy from a chick’s point of view for fuck’s sake? It isn’t my idea of getting off to a good start this semester.”