Skyler fumbles her mug a little, just enough to spill a drop of coffee on her sweater, and I know it’s sunk in.
I’m reminding her what’s at stake.
Not just the presidency, which she wants not only for herself, but for our family, too, but also our friendship. I asked her to do something for me, for girl code, and she agreed.
And I see it all set in as she schools her features, her resolve to tell me she wants out extinguished like a match under a bucket of water.
Handing her a napkin for the spilt coffee, I smile. “I’m so lucky to have you in my life, Little. You know, for a second last night I thought you were actually into him. It was so convincing!” I sigh, letting out a short laugh as I make my way toward the kitchen exit. “But of course, that would be silly,” I say at the door, turning to face her again. “I mean, what kind of relationship could you possibly have with him now? If he ever found out about the game, about the set up… I can’t even imagine what he’d think, how he’d feel.” I smile a little, the intention clear as day. “He’d probably never talk to you again.”
I watch as Skyler tries to swallow, though I can feel that same tightness in my throat.
I’m being an absolute bitch, the worst I’ve ever been to Skyler or anyone else in my entire life… and the worst part is…
I like it.
The power surges through me, the overwhelming rush of knowing what I want and taking it, no mercy, no excuses.
“Anyway,” I say, still smiling. “I’m so excited for tonight. It’s going to be perfect! Come up to my room around four and we can all get ready together. And, Little?”
Skyler looks back up at me from where her eyes had fallen to her lap, face a little white.
“Thank you, for talking to me. You really are one of the best friends I have.”
I smile a little wider, knocking once on the door frame before I leave her in the kitchen alone, making my way upstairs.
And just like that, I’m back in control.
Right where I belong.
I’M GOING TO FUCKING kill him.
He’s my Little, one of my best friends, my brother and my mentee. But none of that matters. Because he made me sign up for this stupid motherfucking dating app, and I am going to kill him.
“Gosh, this was just so fun,” Kimona says, smiling big enough to show me the piece of pepper she’s had lodged between her two front teeth all night again. “We have to get together again soon.”
“Definitely,” I grind out, holding my breath as she leans in for a goodbye hug. This girl has no concept of personal space, which normally wouldn’t be a big deal. But when she smells like our fraternity house after an intramural game and a keg party, it’s an issue.
“Walk me to my car?” she asks when she pulls back.
For a moment, I just let myself stare at her, convincing myself that it’s not my fault she bottled all that crazy up in that hot, tight little package and put it on a dating app for me to swipe right on. Her abdomen is lean, all of it showing under her tiny crop top. The ripped-up jeans she’s wearing hug her hips, rounding over her firm ass in the perfect way, and her hair is straight as a pin, flowing down behind her shoulders to touch the top of her belt. She’s got style, her kicks matching the floral designs on her crop top, and her makeup flawlessly applied.
But that’s the thing about online dating — no matter how hot the girl looks, and how well she sells herself in her bio, and how funny she is in text messages — you never really know what you’re getting into until you meet her in person.
And boy, did I get myself into a big, steaming pile of horse shit with this one.
Kimona, though cute as hell, is fucking insane.
I’m talking Mike Tyson taking a chunk out of Holyfield’s ear crazy.
If her starting off our “casual” Friday night date of bowling by bringing me a stuffed bear wearing a t-shirt with her name on it and box of her favorite chocolates — because she “just knew I’d share” — for Valentine’s Day wasn’t weird enough, the fact that she was so genuinely appalled that I didn’t buy her a gift that she made me buy enough tokens in the arcade to win her a teddy bear pretty much sealed the deal.
And this was in the first fifteen minutes.
Forget about the entire two hours of bowling, listening to her talk about her Instagram followers and her crazy fucking friends, who, by the way, ended up video chatting us after the first game. One of them drilled me about my background, and the other made me lift up my shirt to show her my abs, to which the third friend, a slender kid with his makeup done better than Kimona, celebrated with a “Yes, daddy.”
“Um, I actually think I left my jacket inside, so I’m going to run back in. But I’ll call you,” I told her, offering a hand in a wave.
She started to pout, opening her mouth to ask something else, and then she paused, brows pinching together like she was trying to remember what jacket I’d worn.
The answer was that I hadn’t worn a jacket. I needed a drink, which they conveniently had at the bar inside the bowling alley.
Before she could say anything else, I turned, booking it toward the bar. I checked over my shoulder to make sure she left, and when she had, I slid into the first barstool at the edge of the bar, running my hands over my fade with a groan.
I’m going to kill him.
It would be one thing if this had been the first horrific, nightmare-inducing date from this stupid app. But no, this was now the fifth one in a row. And, sadly, Kimona, as crazy as she is, was the best of those five. Between the girl who neglected to put in her profile her obsession with vampires and desire to have her blood sucked, to the girl who cried about her ex the entire time we were at the nauseating romantic comedy screening — that she chose — well, you could say I’m over it.
There was a little promise in the date I had last Saturday with a girl who, oddly, reminded me a lot of Shawna — only her hair was pink instead of purple and she didn’t wear those sexy glasses I loved so much. But, after two hours of a pretty decent date, I rode home with her in a taxi only for her to tell me it was going to cost me five-hundred dollars to go past that point.
Sighing, I thumb out an angry text to Josh warning him to guard his loins next time I’m around him. Then, I text Skyler, telling her I hope her night at the Alpha Sigma dance is less of a disaster than my fifth and final blind date. She doesn’t answer, which doesn’t surprise me — she’s been more than a little occupied with the new transfer since she sank her teeth into him the night they met at rush. We have plans to meet up for breakfast next week, so I decide to fill her in on my dates then, and toss my phone on the bar face down with another long sigh.
“You know, I want so badly to tease you about all that huffing and sighing, but I had a front row viewing of that train wreck and I can’t say I blame you. Here,” a commanding, yet melodic voice says. “This one’s on me.”
A tall glass filled to the top with a light, amber-colored beer appears in front of me, and I follow the hand hooked to it.
To a girl so beautiful that I have to actively think about keeping my jaw clamped shut.
Wow.
It’s been a long time since a girl has stunned me with her beauty alone. In fact, I can’t think of the last time it happened. Perhaps when I met Skyler? As much as I was into Shawna, it wasn’t the same kind of beauty. Shawna was different, unique. She stuck out with her purple hair, her glasses, her pierced nipples.
But this girl? This girl is a classic, timeless kind of pretty.
She looks like she walked straight out of a 1970’s issue of Ebony magazine, her skin dark and smooth, hair just a couple inches longer than mine, framing her face with natural, easily styled curls. She’s dressed in the aqua blue bowling alley tank top that all the other girls working there are wearing, paired with a short pair of white shorts, but she adds her own flair with an aqua and orange bandana tied at the front edge of her hair. Large, gold hoop earrings adorn her ears, her makeup natural and slight
, but what catches me most is the combination of her smile and her eyes.
That smile, not a bright, blinding one, but a comfortable smirk, like she knows something the rest of the world doesn’t. Her plump bottom lip is nude, giving her a natural pout, and the way those lips complement her bright, golden eyes is enough to make me blink to be sure I’m seeing it all as it really is, and not as a dream.
Because she must be a dream.
I’m not sure how long I stare at her before my ability to find words comes back, but she’s just waiting, watching, that beautiful smile in place as she hangs one hand on her hip.
“You mean you saw that whole thing and didn’t send help? What kind of monster are you?”
She chuckles, tossing her hands up to reveal her smooth, light palms. “Hey, it’s not my business to get involved in the affairs of customers — even if they are poor sonofabitches dating quite possibly the worst kind of girl.”
“We’re not dating,” I clarified quickly. Then, I tilted my head with a cock of one eyebrow. “Well, technically, this was a date. But it was our first one. And our last.”
“Bit off more than you could chew, huh?”
“Let’s just say I’ve quickly discovered that online dating is not for me.”
I take my first drink as she laughs, savoring the cool, refreshing bubbles as much as the sound of her delicate voice.
“Oh God, don’t tell me your friends suckered you into downloading one of those atrocious apps.”
I point one finger at her like a gun. “Bingo.”
“Poor thing. Tell you what, the second one is on me, too,” she says, nodding to my already half-empty glass.
Cocking one brow, I take another small sip. “Buying me two beers within the first five minutes of talking to me, huh? Is this what it feels like to be a chick at a bar?”
“Don’t get used to it. You’re buying on our next date.”
I have to swallow slowly not to choke on my beer at that. “I didn’t realize we were having a first.”
“Well, now you do.” She winks, nodding at a customer down the bar to let him know she’s on her way over. Then, before she makes her way toward him, she extends her hand for mine. Her nails are nude, just like her lips, but each delicate finger is covered with gold and silver rings. “It’s Becca, by the way.”
I take her hand in mine, not fighting the smile she brings to the surface after such a shitty night. “Bear. Er—” I pause. “Clinton.”
“Which one is it?”
“Both. Clinton is my real name, but my friends call me Bear.”
Becca smirks, that same confident, sexy-as-hell one she had when I first laid eyes on her. “Well, let’s start with Clinton then.” Then she knocks a knuckle on the bar. “Be right back.”
She sashays down to the other end of the bar, and I don’t dare tear my eyes away from her plump ass, even though I should. Nope, I shamelessly watch her for the rest of the night, whether she’s tending to other customers or hanging out in front of me. We talk as much as her busy bar allows, and at the end of the night, she puts her number in my phone — and a kissy face emoji right next to her name.
The next thing I do is delete that fucking app.
IN HINDSIGHT, PERHAPS USING Kade as a secret way to talk about Adam with the girls wasn’t my smartest plan.
It started earlier in the week, when I was feeling particularly bummed out before my talk with Adam at the bonfire last night. Skyler asked me what was wrong, and in an effort to get her fabulous boy advice, I told her about my flip-flop emotional feelings toward Adam.
Except, I said it was Kade I was feeling them for.
It seemed smart at the time. If I used a code name, then I could talk about my feelings and get them out of my head. I could get advice from my sisters. And Kade is such a flirt, he’s already had three “girlfriends” in his short time since joining Alpha Sigma. It would work, I told myself. No one would question it.
And they haven’t.
But now, it’s a little harder to hold the façade as I carefully craft my words before I say them to Skyler in the bathroom at the Alpha Sig Valentine’s Day dance.
To say that I’m frustrated would be a drastic understatement. I huff again, sliding my lip gloss over my lip for the thirteenth time. My lips are shiny. I should put it away, but it’s giving me something to do.
Adam sat next to me in the limo on the way to the dance, but other than our conversation there, he hasn’t said a word to me.
And he hasn’t asked me to dance.
I know it’s his duty as president to make sure everything is going smoothly, and I know his brothers are here, and his new members, and he’s got his hands full. I know all that. But here he is, less than twenty-four hours after preaching all this actions are louder than words shit, and in my eyes, he’s failing. His words might have said that he thinks I’m beautiful tonight and he can’t wait to spin me around the dance floor, but his actions are saying I’m the last thing on his mind.
I should be calm, I should know he’ll ask me to dance soon. I should still be comforted by all the wonderful, perfect, amazing things he said to me as he held me by the bonfire last night.
But my anxiety is a nasty, wild beast, and right now, I can’t fight against it with an animal as weak as logic.
“So, do you see what I’m saying?” I ask Skyler, continuing our conversation about Adam — AKA, Kade — not asking me to dance yet. I slip my lip gloss back in my purse, turning to watch her finish touching up her mascara. “He’s more difficult to read than my fucking biology books.”
At least that part was true.
“Take control, Little,” Skyler says, as if it’s easy. As if every girl in the world has the same bad ass, cocky style that she does. “Kade is young. Hot, but young. If you want him, make a move.”
Things I want to say:
I have made a move, but he wants to take it slow. What’s up with that shit?
I understand his motives for wanting to move slow. It’s the most amazing, most respectful way I’ve ever been treated. But I simultaneously hate it.
I feel completely out of control of my emotions and have no idea what is happening.
Oh and PS, it’s actually Adam I’m talking about.
Instead, what I actually say is, “Ugh. I’m not you, Big. I can’t just make a move.”
And again, at least that part is true. At this point in our story, I am not asking Adam to dance. He should be asking me.
“I’m confident,” I tell Skyler, believing it only about sixty percent in my heart. “But, I’m also traditional. I want him to ask me.”
I watch her slick the mascara over her lashes one last time, chewing my lip with a question I’ve been burning to ask her since last night at the bonfire. I know she and Adam are just friends, that they have a close relationship — definitely not a traditional one for exes to have. Still… the way she looked at him, the way she flirted with him…
Does she still like him?
Because I’m almost entirely sure that if the answer to that is yes, I will literally die. And not a cute, movie kind of death. I’m talking the gruesome kind that they can’t show on the news.
Kappa Kappa Beta Sister Dies of Heartbreak, Explodes Into Mess of Guts and Feelings.
“Ask me whatever it is you want to ask me before you chew off your bottom lip,” Skyler says, grinning at me in the mirror.
I sigh, leaning a hip against the bathroom counter. I debate my next words carefully. I haven’t talked to Skyler about Adam in… well, ever. Our entire friendship, or whatever you call it, has been kept away from Skyler — mostly because I was a little ashamed of having feelings for someone who used to be her boyfriend.
But I can’t go any longer without knowing.
“Are you and Adam still a thing?” I ask, trying to sound naïve. I aim for somewhere between idle curiosity and bored concern. “Like, when this thing is over with Kip… are you going to date him again?”
A friend wo
uld ask another friend that, right? That’s normal, right?
Skyler’s face warps into confusion as she tucks her mascara away. “What?” she almost scoffs. “No, not even close. Adam was fun last year and we’re still good friends, but he’s president and doesn’t have time for a girlfriend.”
Tell me about it.
“And even if he did,” Skyler continues. “It wouldn’t be me.”
“Why?” I say quickly, almost too quickly.
“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “I’m just not into him like that anymore.” Suddenly, Skyler turns on me, one brow popped up in curiosity. “Why do you ask?”
I have to focus not to blanch, not to blush, and I’m sure my cheeks shade pink, anyway. But I keep my voice steady, convincing her as much as I can that this is a normal conversation.
“I don’t know,” I say, shrugging and facing the mirror again. “I was just curious. Just wondering if you’d have someone to fall back on, I guess.”
Yeah, that sounds legit.
Blessedly, Erin, Ashlei, and Jess pour into the bathroom, saving me from having to answer any other questions about my sudden interest in Skyler and Adam. Ashlei gets to us first, and she slides right between us, one arm hanging on each of our shoulders.
“J-Love is D-Runk,” she announces.
“I am not!” is the immediate argument from Jess, but the words slur a little as she says them. “I’m just having fun. You should try it.”
“No Violet Vulva tonight, J-Love?” Skyler asks.
“Nope.” Jess holds one finger up, waving it side to side. “Let’s just say there’s a little garden that’s not so innocent anymore.”
We all laugh out a mixture of ew and gross, and through the spew of laughter, Skyler says, “Kip gave me a gift in that garden, you skank. You ruined my Valentine’s Day.”
“Oh hush, I didn’t fuck on your precious glasses, you prude,” Jess retorts, referencing the new pair of Ray-Bans Kip gave Skyler as a gift. They’re actually perfect for her, and one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever seen her receive. I eye her as Jess keeps talking, noting the tinge of sadness in her eyes.
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