by Rachel Shane
Master Probation
Copyright © 2015 Rachel Shane
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electrical or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Rachel Shane
Interior design and layout by Rachel Shane
To Cady Vance,
For inspiring me to take the plunge.
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Master Probation. (n)
Definition: a person who makes the most out of her sorority’s probation status by operating the sorority illegally and purposefully breaking all the sanctioned rules. Rules in this case may also be synonymous with ‘hearts.’
See also: Bianca Cruz, junior at Throckmorton University.
IT FELT GREAT LEADING a charge. The brigade of girls behind me swung their hips in unison to the clicking of our stilettos as we strutted all the way across campus, past the library that seemed to have been lifted right out of a gothic horror movie, over the grassy quad, until we stopped in front of the lone fraternity that rested on sorority row. Omega Upsilon Tau. Out House.
My old house.
Last year, I lived on the second floor of the three story mansion with the rest of my sorority, Rho Sigma. But Rho Sigma no longer existed. At least as far as the Throckmorton University Greek Organization was concerned.
My throat tightened at the nostalgia clogging my airwaves. The dark Greek letters for rho and sigma that used to hang proudly on the yellow siding: gone. Divots from lounge chairs marred the once pristine grass, and a volleyball net had been strung across the spot the girls used to lay out towels for the best exposure to the sun. When sun actually made an appearance in gray, snowy Upstate New York, that is. I remembered tripping on the icy front step during pledging and ripping a hole in my jeans. Filling a watermelon with vodka in an attempt to make spiked fruit, then cringing when it tasted too boozy. The spicy scent of our house chef’s mole poblano, which always made me think of my childhood.
My eyes flew to the window on the second floor. Instead of the pretty teal satin curtains my roommate Erin and I had painstakingly hung, a picture of a topless model was propped to the window, facing the street. Curtains concealed, but this photo exposed. My chest ached. Everything was wrong.
The girls behind me stopped short, the chatter and excitement that had been loud enough to drown out the chirp of crickets and the pounding bass from the enemy house in front of us made way for groans.
“We’re having our first mixer with them?” someone yelled.
I’d kept the identity of the frat a surprise, mostly because I needed the sisters to actually show up. And if they knew we were partying with the house that destroyed us, they wouldn’t.
I spun around and placed two palms on my fitted leopard print dress I somehow had managed to squeeze my boobs into. Well, most of them. “And who would you have liked to party with instead?” I raised my brow, trying to keep my voice steady so it would sound authoritative.
Some of the seniors in the very front backed up a step at whatever fierceness they spotted on my face. I fought back the urge to smile and lifted my chin higher. When Rho Sigma was real, these girls used to stomp all over me. But now, as President of the illegal version of Rho Sig, I held the power.
“Beta Chi,” someone suggested. Toward the back, Corey Taft lifted one corner of his mouth in a sneer and shook his head. He used to be part of Beta Chi Lambda. But now he was one of us. As an underground sorority, we didn’t have to discriminate by gender. His girlfriend Mackenzie Shaffer mocked throw up gestures in solidarity. I shared the same sentiment. I was done looking for love at that house. Not that I was looking for love at Out House.
“Or Sammy,” another voice said, referring to Sigma Alpha Mu.
“Well, Beta Chi and Sammy wanted nothing to do with us We’re Underground now. We need to establish ourselves on campus, off the record of course, before most frats are willing to take a risk on us. Out House was willing, and so here we are.” I stomped up the steps and jammed my finger against the doorbell, closing the argument.
My best friend Erin Behr sidled up next to me, pushing her brown bob out of her face. “You could have told them the real reason why you agreed to this party.”
Heart ramping up in speed, my eyes swept over every face nearby, searching for narrowed eyes, furrowed brows, any damn thing that would indicate they overheard what my very naïve best friend had just said. Because as President, it was my job to protect my charges. And if they found out I planned to use this party not as a time for fun but for reconnaissance, they’d get their hopes up. I refused to make them a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep.
The girls behind me seemed as clueless as ever, so I leaned into Erin. “Shh. The whole point of this is to be subtle. Remember, don’t snap a photo of the alcohol, pretend you’re snapping a selfie but aim the lens at the underage drinkers.”
She slapped her forehead with the side of her palm as if to say aye aye, captain, and a genuine smile graced my face. I preferred the goofy side of her she only busted out once in a blue moon to the one she usually presented herself as: a poised future-TV host. We’d met freshman year when my horrible OG roommate locked me out of my room when I was wearing nothing but a towel. Erin, who lived across the hall, quickly donned a towel too and turned my exile into an impromptu runway show that soon had our entire floor dancing in the hallway in our shower attire.
The door swung open and the yeasty scent of beer hit me in the gut. It seemed so out of place, so absolutely wrong. I missed the homey scent of potpourri that used to lure me inside.
“Ladies, welcome.” Harrison Wagner stepped onto the landing, forcing me to back up and causing the girl behind me to teeter on the edge until she tripped onto the step below, a domino effect. His annoying smirk jumped to his face as he scanned the rows of girls decked out in the sluttiest animal print outfits they could find. Only a single strip of zebra-print fabric hung from Harrison’s bicep, which he made sure to show off with a fitted black t-shirt. Last year I remembered him being bean pole lanky but he must have been concealing his muscles inside his smarmy facade. And his trendy fitted peacoat. “Well, you’re all looking ripe for a cat fight.”
I groaned. “Cheesy jokes are not welcome in Yours’ presence.”
Yours was the nickname we’d coined for Underground Rho Sigma, a.k.a. URS, because the full name was too much of a mouthful. And also a liability.
Harrison’s smirk wavered as he studied me. “Oh, but isn’t your house the biggest joke of all?”
I slapped him in the face a full second before the scoff left my lips. My hand striking the rough stubble on his cheek never felt so good, until sucked in breaths and gasps joined the pounding bass from inside. My heart thumped. I’d worked with a therapist here at school all last year to control my anger and resentment issues and in two seconds this jerk made me lose control.
Harrison’s jaw clenched as he reached his long fingers to his cheek and rubbed. “I’ll let that one slide only because I really want you girls to see the fu
n we have planned for you.” He flourished his hand toward the entrance. “After you, Bianca.”
I crossed my arms, seething desperate breaths through my nostrils, and waited for him to step inside first. There was only one thing I learned from last year’s poor choice of elective, World History, and it was this: never turn your back on an enemy. I delivered my own smirk at Harrison’s shoulder blades as he faced away from me and entered.
I stabbed a metaphorical knife into his back.
The darkness that engulfed me made my breath catch. Even at night, little lights used to line the path from the door to the kitchen to help the sisters find their way in the not-so-dark. But Out House had plummeted the glow down to haunted house levels. A cheesy disco ball revolved from the ceiling, throwing sparkles on the floor. Plastic trees swayed as brothers knocked into them. Stuffed monkeys hung from the twisty banister we used to stand on during rush to welcome to prospective members.
“This way.” Harrison ushered us to the right where the ornate chapter room waited. Two big burly bouncers and a desk blocked the entrance.
A woman with blond hair pulled back into a complicated knot raised a brow at me from behind the desk. “ID?”
I swiveled my head toward Harrison, squinting in confusion.
“I believe you already know Mrs. Comstock?” Harrison said. “Head of the Greek Organization?”
The words stabbed a pin straight through my gut. “But—?” Aren’t parties illegal?
“ID,” Mrs. Comstock said again, this time with an annoyed tone. The girls behind me shuffled their feet.
With shaking hands, I lifted the fake one that always got me into Quigley’s and slid it over to her. My stomach twisted as she pursed her lips at the very unrealistic hologram. To avoid eye contact, I craned my neck behind her head where newly stained hardwood floors replaced the gaudy floral rugs I used to hate but now fiercely missed. A brown leather sofa stood in for the girly polka dot one Mackenzie and I cuddled together on during a pledging sleepover, my head resting on her butt. Color bottles of liquor lined an ornate book case that had been filled with discarded textbooks during Rho Sig’s reign.
“Sorry, no,” Mrs. Comstock passed the ID back to me. “Next?” Her eyes locked on the Corey behind me. He was actually twenty-one.
My heart thrashed in my chest as I stumbled backward. What the hell just happened?
A warm breath coated the skin on my neck. “Welcome to the reject party,” Harrison cooed. “If you’ll follow me.”
I planted my feet to my spot and watched as Mrs. Comstock slapped a bright green band onto Corey’s wrist and the security guard stepped aside to let him pass. Pulsing lights and even louder music welcomed him with open arms. But when Mackenzie failed the hardest test of college so far, Corey shook his head. Erin and I, plus the asshole next to me, stood there, stunned. A few of the seniors passed inspection easily and marched right up to the bartender in the back of the chapter room. He poured them drinks that reached the top of the cup. Balancing and sipping simultaneously, Olivia Marquez waltzed to the security guard at the entrance. “Excuse me,” she said, nodding toward the foyer where more girls were being either rejected or admitted.
“Drink stays here,” the bouncer said.
Olivia sighed, shook her head toward her rejected friend, then slipped back into the chapter room. Several Out House boys surrounded her.
When I spun around again, Harrison greeted me with that horrible smirk of his. I crossed my arms. “So, what, only half of us get to party?”
“Of course not. We’ve got something special planned for the rest of you.” He loped toward the dining room. Those of us burdened by our birthdays followed.
Instead of the floral tablecloths we used to eat on, board games covered the long tables that filled the dining room. Soda bottles littered the spaces between games.
Board games. At a college party.
If that didn’t deserve a punch in Harrison’s face, nothing did.
He plopped into one of the wooden chairs, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes. “Monopoly?”
“Don’t you own enough houses already?” I let out a growl of frustration that earned a chuckle from him. This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go! I was supposed to catch Out House doing a whole bunch of illegal shit and take them down without breaking a nail.
I hovered over him and forced him to look up to me. For a moment, I faltered as a flashback from my pageant days seized me: me, standing on stage, being scrutinized by judges and an audience looking up at me. It made me uncomfortable then and still made me uncomfortable now, but using my looks was a hard habit to break. Tomorrow I’d try harder. Today I sucked in a breath to keep my voice steady. “Why is the Greek Org here when parties are illegal?”
Harrison closed his eye for a moment as if he was savoring my question. “They aren’t illegal if you register them properly and follow federal laws about serving alcohol.” He flicked his fingers between the boring part of the party and the opposite room where cheers and shouts rang out from whatever fun those lucky people were having.
I spun around, slapping him in the face with my long dark hair, and stomped toward Mackenzie and Corey who hadn’t even been back at school for three days and already were locking lips. “Hold me back. Before I do something stupid.” I spread my legs in a fighting stance. I’d go back to controlling my anger tomorrow, too.
Mackenzie pushed her auburn hair behind her ear and placed a gentle palm on my shoulder. “He’s not worth it. He’s just trying to get a rise out of you.”
Corey grunted, sliding his fingers along the dark stubble on his jaw. “He only ever invites people places when he wants to show off.”
My shoulders straightened at Corey’s words. This was my chance to show off. The party on the first floor might be completely sanctioned, but everyone had skeletons. And they usually hid those in closets. “Cover for me.”
I did a quick recon sweep. Another bouncer guarded the back entrance, blocking me from the back staircase, but Harrison neglected to remember one thing about me: I used to live here.
Mackenzie’s hand fell from my shoulder as I skulked into the kitchen. Between the industrial stove and the stainless steel refrigerator rested a door that led to a small basement room used for additional food storage. I twisted the knob and descended down the creaky stairs. Darkness crept around me, but wooden walls guided my way as I bypassed two additional freezers and metal shelves lined with large tubs of generic brands. Mayonnaise instead of Hellman’s. Chemicals instead of fresh meat. I missed those things desperately, too. I turned a corner and crept up the back staircase. The first floor landing was enclosed by a locked door, which meant the bouncer wouldn’t see me when I kept going right on upstairs.
I pulled off my stilettos and dangled them in my hands, pressing the balls of my bare feet into the leftover carpet as I traipsed upstairs. I intended to breeze right past the second level but nostalgia tugged me in the other direction, if only for a moment. The closed door of my old room coaxed me like a beacon. My heart rammed at all the memories inside that now belonged to someone else. They floated up to the front of my mind—Erin’s morning yoga routine done at the butt crack of dawn while I threw pillows at her in complaint, blasting Clever Trevor songs as we got ready for Quigley’s, Never Have I Ever played with Vodka and Crystal Lite—but I pivoted on my heels and pounded toward the stairwell again. The lump in my throat grew larger until I retreated into the sanctuary of the third floor. I never used to come up here when I lived in, mostly because Layla—our former president—and her cronies held court.
But now Harrison Wagner was king of this castle.
The President’s suite, which should have been mine—another thing Harrison stole from me—resided at the far left of the house. The room was larger than the doubles on the second floor and boasted its own private bathroom. I let out a sharp laugh at Harrison’s gaudy black satin bedspread and the new wall sconces affixed above his bed to give the place optimal roma
ntic lighting. Dusty tomes of European literature lined the top shelf of his desk to show off while his real treasure, a nerdy comic book collection, was hidden in boxes beneath his bed. I spotted a few copies of rare Japanese manga and groaned in annoyance that he secretly liked the same ones I did. That he’d even heard of them. His textbooks faced out and proud as if he wanted the world to stumble in here and see he was taking Advanced Journalism classes. His nightstand revealed a retainer, a shit ton of loose change, and an unopened box of condoms. Wishful thinking there, Smarmy.
The faint pump of bass music rose to the floor and covered my stomp across the room. I pulled open each desk drawer and lifted a ream of blank paper from the bottom one, uncovering a manilla envelope concealed beneath. In scratchy boy handwriting, it was labeled: Custody Hearing. Strange. When I flipped through it, I found several Internet article print outs about gaining custody, along with copies of a bunch of legal forms. My eyes widened and zoomed to the name of the dependent: Lily Wagner. Did Harrison have a kid or something?
With a flick of the mouse, I nudged his computer awake. An InDesign layout for Thursday’s The Daily Snowflake newspaper issue popped on screen. He was so damn punctual he was already working on an issue that wouldn’t release for five more days. I clicked through the pages, my shoulders tensing as I braced to find some unflattering or scandalous article about Yours, outing us before we even had a chance to get our footing. But the stories seemed clean. I was about to shut the stupid thing off when my eyes picked out a small eighth of a page ad in the bottom corner.
New PR position available at The Daily Snowflake.
I allowed a smile to curve my lips as I clicked out of the newspaper file. His class schedule hung from the inside of his desk, and I snapped a photo of it with my phone so I could come away with something useful in his boring-as-hell room. A way to stalk him seemed like a starting point. Or not stalk, really. More like keep your enemies close by knowing his whereabouts.