Top Secret

LUKE

Three or four minutes pass, but LobsterShorts doesn’t text me back. I’ve surreptitiously zipped up my jeans again under the library table. And I’ve put all my books away.

Still. Blank screen.

I don’t know why I should care. But I’m starting to like the guy. I mean—lobster sex! And here I thought nerds were boring. I’ll admit it. I want to meet him.

My phone chimes, and I check it immediately. But it’s only a reminder for the meeting I’m headed back to the frat house to attend.

As I leave the library and walk through the dark, I’m almost regretting my choice to run for president. Meetings are the worst, and I’m basically signing myself up for an endless number of them. Free rent for an entire year sounds like heaven, but is it worth the headache of running a fraternity?

Ugh. Yes. I think it is. Because if I’m not paying rent, I can cut my work hours down to one night a weekend. Or, if I save up enough during the summer? I might not even have to work at all. I could spend my senior year focusing only on school, graduation, and career plans.

And Alpha Delt. But I’m sure the prez duties won’t be half as stressful as working vampire hours all weekend long.

When I get home, I find another meeting already in progress in our dining room. I guess tonight’s the night for meetings. Jako, my campaign manager, hasn’t arrived yet, so I kill time by eavesdropping on the Pledge Committee’s discussion.

The head of the committee is Judd Keller. So I opted out this year.

“Who wants to go first?” Judd asks the guys around the table. “We’ll brainstorm and then choose the best and craziest initiation ideas.”

We tapped our pledges in September, and they’ve been probationary members since then. Now, we put them through hell for seven days before finally making them into full-fledged brothers. Last year, I sat on this committee because every member has to volunteer for something, and at least PC is a short-term commitment. But it was a nightmare, mostly because Judd is so fucking annoying.

“Maybe the pledges should do the paperclip challenge,” a senior named Paul suggests.

“The what?” Judd asks. “Is that, like, a physical exercise?”

“No. We divide them into three teams of four. Each team gets a paperclip. And they have three days to trade it for something worthwhile. In this case it should be something they can donate to charity. They trade the paperclip for a pencil. They trade the pencil for a pen. They trade the pen for a stapler. And so on.” Paul shrugs. “I learned about it in one of my management classes.”

“What the hell for?” Judd asks.

“A couple things. It gets you comfortable asking for stuff, which is a life skill. You have to be willing to hear no if you’re ever going to hear yes.”

Judd begins to sneer. “I think I read that in a self-help book once.”

“I don’t know,” says Ahmad Mithani. “I kind of like it. It’s a nice break from the Haggar’s Rules of Hazing.”

I laugh, because I can’t help myself. “Wait, there’s a hazing canon?”

Judd’s head swivels in my direction. “What the hell, Bailey. You’re not even on this committee! Fuck off.”

I stifle a grin. “Sorry. Just waiting for my committee to arrive. Is this house teeming with committees or what?”

Paul snickers softly.

“Don’t mind me,” I assure them. I make a zipping motion over my mouth. “I’ll keep quiet.”

Although Judd is red-faced, he doesn’t argue. What’s he going to do, kick me out of my own house? The dining room is off the living room, which is where I’m supposed to meet my campaign manager.

“I don’t mind the paperclip challenge,” Ahmad says with a shrug. “It’s mildly humiliating, but with real purpose.”

“They could just contribute money to a charity instead,” Judd mumbles. “But, fine. Put it on the list of possibilities.”

Ahmad hops up and goes to the whiteboard on the wall. He erases a giant drawing of a cock and balls, because what else do people put on a frat-house whiteboard? With the marker, he writes the heading IDEAS, and underneath it: Paperclip Challenge.

“Now, who else has an idea that won’t bore me stupid?” Judd demands.

“I have a great one,” Owen Rickman, one of Judd’s football teammates, pipes up. “I call it Bloody Knuckles.”

Judd nods in approval. “Sick name. Tell me more.”

“Okay, so we haul those fuckers out of their beds at, like, two in the morning and take ‘em outside. They line up in front of the back wall of the house and rub their knuckles against the bricks.”

I won’t lie—I’m fascinated.

By the sheer stupidity of this idea.

“What’s the point of that?” asks Tim Hoffman, a senior.

“See how long they can last, how tough they are. Their knuckles will be torn up, bloody as fuck. It’ll be so gory, dude.”

Judd is nodding again, his dark eyes gleaming. “And the guy who lasts the longest is rewarded with having to scrub all the blood off the wall and patio.”

Tim snickers. “How is that a reward?”

“It’s not,” Judd says, rolling his eyes. “Because there’s no such thing as rewards during Hell Week. These losers need to suffer.”

Why? I almost blurt out. Why do they need to “suffer”?

To be honest, I’ve never understood the concept of hazing. It’s supposed to be about bonding, right? Creating long-lasting friendships with your fellow brothers?

But we already live in a house together. We eat our meals together. We study together. We share bathrooms. We’re each other’s therapists. We hold our brother’s metaphorical hair back (or literal hair, if we’re talking about Jon Munsen’s long surfer locks) when he’s hugging the toilet after a kegger.

You’re telling me all that doesn’t generate a lifelong bond? We need to watch our brothers scrape their knuckles raw on a brick wall in the middle of the night in order to solidify these friendships?

“Yo.”

I turn at the sound of Jako’s low voice. He must have just come from the gym, because he’s wearing a sweat-soaked tank top, track pants, and runners.

“Hey,” I murmur back, so as to not disrupt Judd’s meeting.

“You mind if I change quick-fast?” Jako asks. “I’ll come back down in five.”

“No prob,” I tell him.

As Jako bounds off, I glance back at the dining area.

“Mithani, add Bloody Knuckles to the list,” Judd is saying. “Next idea?”

Rounding out the group is Paxton Grier, the heir to a tech fortune. His dad is a Silicon Valley dude who invented an algorithm that compresses massive photo files, so it stands to reason his son is equally smart and innovative, right?

“My brother’s frat does this thing called the Watermelon Sex Picnic.”

I stifle a sigh.

Ahmad guffaws. “That sounds like the name of an emo band.” They high-five each other.

Judd, of course, is hanging on Grier’s every word. “Tell me more.”

“We get a bunch of watermelons and take the pledges on a picnic, so, like, basically just setting up some blankets or tarps to contain the mess.”

The mess? Oh boy, I already don’t like the sound of this.

“We cut holes in the watermelons, strip the losers naked, and make them fuck the melons.”

Owen hoots.

“And the guy that lasts the longest has to eat all the leftovers.”

Ahmad starts gagging. “Oh shit. That is so gross.”

“I love it,” Judd declares. “Write that down on the board.”

I genuinely feel queasy, and this is coming from a man who swallows when giving a blowjob. A man who was sexting with another dude right before this meeting. But the idea of forcing other guys, whether they’re straight or gay, to eat a bunch of semen-covered watermelons is incredibly alarming to me.

Despite the fact that I’m not even on the committee, I step forward and clear my throat. “Don’t write that down,” I order Ahmad.

Judd directs a scowl at me. “You’re not the president of this fraternity, Bailey.”

“Yet,” I mock.

“No, you’ll never be,” he growls. “And you’re not the pledgemaster either. I am. You don’t call the shots here.”

“No, but you know who does call the shots? The cops.” I loosely cross my arms over my chest. “Forced sexual contact during hazing is against the law.”

“They’re drilling watermelons,” Judd sputters. “Not each other.”

“They’re being forced to engage in a sexual activity, which most of them will do because they’re eager to get into this frat. It’s a power move for us and—” I stop, realizing I need a different tack with Judd. He craves the power. So I need to appeal to his…sense of self-preservation, I decide. “And if even one of those pledges talks about what happened or considers it sexual assault and tells the cops, you can say goodbye to Alpha Delt.”

“Snitches get stitches,” Owen says darkly.

“Yes, beat the shit out of them badly enough that they get stitches,” I tell him, smiling politely. “The cops will love that, too.”

Owen rolls his eyes at me.

To my surprise, Judd wavers, proving he’s not a complete idiot. “No, Bailey’s raised a good point. Whatever we make these fuckers do can’t be overtly illegal.”

Jako appears at the foot of the stairs, so I leave Judd and his cronies to brainstorm ideas that don’t involve banging watermelons.

“That guy is a real piece of work,” I mutter to Jako.

“Yup,” he agrees. “But that piece of work is entitled to one vote in this election—and guess who needs to earn that vote, Luke? You.”

I chuckle darkly. “Yeah, right. Even if I turned into a genie and granted him three wishes, he’d still never vote for me. He’s ride-or-die with Keaton Hayworth.”

Jako nods. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean you’re not capable of changing his mind.”

Ha. Getting Judd Keller to change his mind about me? I’d have a better chance trying to get cast on a season of Dancing With the Stars.

An hour later, I’m rummaging around in the kitchen for a snack. Now that I’ve got a wad of cash lining my wallet, I can afford to grab a bag of chips. We have a communal snack pantry that any of us can make use of, provided we contribute to the snack fund. Normally I abstain. Tonight, I toss a ten-dollar bill in the jar, and gorge.

Fuuuck. I forgot how good chips are. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m usually too broke to snack on carbs. My livelihood depends on making sure my abs remain tight and lickable.

Nevertheless, I’m elbow deep in the bag and loving every second of it. As I munch, I check my phone. But no message from LobsterShorts. Did I scare him off? I reread our messages, but as far as I can tell, he was with me every step of the way. He was into it.

My last message to him was bold, though.

I want you to finish now. And tell me if this helps.

Maybe he wasn’t into the pic I sent?

I think it over, then frown. Fuck that. My body is fucking awesome. Of course he was into it.

Granted, he admitted to never chatting up a guy, or being with one. Maybe the virtual blowjob didn’t do it for him. He tried it out, couldn’t get hard. Or maybe got so hard it freaked him out?

I can’t deny I’m disappointed at the notion that he might be gone for good. He didn’t unmatch me on Kink, so that’s something. But he’s also not messaging.

I skim the message thread again, but when footsteps near the doorway, I jam a finger on my phone to close the app.

“Hey,” I grunt as Keaton Hayworth appears. But he doesn’t even respond.

My gaze warily tracks Mr. Jockface as he ducks into the pantry. He’s wearing sweatpants and a sleeveless red T-shirt, providing me with front-row seats to the gun show. Dude’s got great arms. Too bad his personality is shit.

“Yo,” he eventually grunts back, as I shove another chip into my mouth. I crunch loudly, continuing to watch Keaton.

He emerges from the pantry with a granola bar. One of those bland ones with nuts and stuff.

Neither of us speaks. Which is normal enough, I guess. Keaton and I have nothing in common, so conversations between the two of us are rare. We have no problem bitching at each other for playing our music too loud, but exchanging actual meaningful words? Not our style.

And yet I stop him before he can leave the kitchen. “Hey, wait.”

When he turns, I notice his face is flushed, and he looks a little unsettled. “Need something, Bailey?” he snaps.

I set down the chip bag. “There was a meeting tonight. For the Pledge Committee?”

“Sure?” He frowns. “I’m not on that one. So?”

And here I tread carefully. “I know you’re tight with Judd, and I thought I’d give you a heads-up. Maybe you can have a chat with him when the two of you are in the locker room, slapping each other’s asses with towels.”

One corner of Keaton’s mouth quirks. “Is that what you think football players do in the locker room?”

The football players I’ve seen on PornHub do a lot more than smack asses. They fuck ‘em. But I keep that to myself.

“Judging by the hard-on he got tonight at the thought of watching other guys fuck watermelons, I’d say, yes, it wouldn’t surprise me if Judd was into locker room ass play.”

Keaton’s eyes widen. “Sorry, what?”

“Your bro has some messed-up ideas about how to haze our pledges. Figured you could try to nip that in the bud.” I shrug. “Maybe remind him that consent and MeToo applies to men as well as women. I’d rather get through this year’s initiation week without a lawsuit.”

Seriously, if I wanted legal trouble, I could just live at home.

Keaton crosses those impressive arms and stares me down. “Are you pulling my chain right now?”

“What? No! Jesus. Ask him yourself. I’ve got better things to do than invent bad ideas, Hayworth. But we both know Judd listens to just one of us, and it ain’t me.”

He lifts a hand and runs it through his messy hair. He’s edging toward the doorway, as if he’s dying to leave.

“I’m serious, Hayworth.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll bring it up to him.” He stops to glare at me. “But if you’re just trying to make trouble between my teammate and me…”

“Oh, please,” I sputter. “I’m trying to keep us out of trouble. I don’t give two shits about Hell Week so long as nobody gets sued afterward.”

“Simmer down,” Hayworth grumbles. “Judd likes to talk. He’s too smart to put us in any real jeopardy.”

“Smart?” I spit before I can think better of it. “He drove a U-Haul truck into an underground parking garage, peeling the top off like a sardine can. And his ex-girlfriend had to get a new SIM card for her phone because he wouldn’t stop calling her from alternate numbers.”

My studly neighbor shakes his head. His whiskers are scruffy, which only draws more attention to his good looks. Some people have all the advantages in life.

Except common sense. “Judd cares about Alpha Delt,” Hayworth says. “I’m sure he’ll keep his head in the game.”

“Well, I’m not sure,” I say, just to make it clear. “If this turns into a shit show, I’m not taking the fall for it.”

“It won’t turn into a shit show.” His lips tighten. “Are you done?”

“Jeez. Someone’s feeling crabby tonight. What’s wrong, Hayworth?” I crack. “You hard up? Your rich girlfriend isn’t sucking your dick often enough?”

Keaton’s face goes a bit pale, and for a second I feel bad about being such a smart-ass. But my remorse is short-lived, because Hayworth sneers at me and resorts to the most childish of comebacks.

“At least I have a girlfriend.”

The smug bastard then wanders out of the room with his granola bar.

I check out his ass as he goes, just because I can.