Page 4 of Savage Don

“Keg stand!”

The front lawn of the frat house is already littered with people when I step onto it. The grass is wet, soaked with beer and sweat, and I almost slip more than once as I sloppily work my way through the crowd, towards the front door.

The entire time, I keep my eyes peeled. I’m looking for the girl who invited me.

Allison.

She seemed so… normal. So wonderfully normal…

“Hey, are you on the football team?” I’ve barely stepped foot inside the house when a girl appears in front of me, red solo cup in hand.

It’s not Allison.

The brunette is taller than the pretty little blonde.

“Uh, no,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t play football.”

I’ve never had the time to play any type of sport before. Shit, in one way or another, I’ve been working for the mob since I first learned to lie.

“Good,” she smiles, her eyelashes fluttering. “They suck. But you’re hot. Want a beer?”

Looking past her, I scan the crowded living room for a familiar face. But all I see are the types of kids who would cross the street if they saw me coming in back home in New York.

“Sure,” I shrug. Might as well.

I’ll find Allison after downing a bit of liquid courage.

“This way,” the girl says. Grabbing my hand, she turns around and leads me through the crowd. “My name is Bailey, by the way,” I think I hear her say. But the music is getting too loud to make out much.

The further we venture into the party, the heavier the bass becomes, until it feels like my brain is vibrating along with the beat.

Turning into a messy kitchen, we’re given a little reprieve from the concussive vibe behind us. This room isn’t nearly as crowded—though, there are three mean looking meatheads standing guard around a large keg.

“Another couple of beers, please!” Bailey hollers, lifting her red plastic cup into the air.

But the frat bros look right past her. For some reason, their attention is immediately fixed onto me.

“Let me see your drink ticket,” the chubbiest of them demands, reaching out his hand like a toll collector.

“Here,” Bailey says, handing over a stained stub.

“No. Not you. Him. Where’s your drink ticket, buddy?”

The contention in his voice is clear. He’s looking for a fight.

If only he knew who he was fucking with...

“He can use mine,” Bailey insists.

“That’s not how it works, doll. Now, you, peach fuzz, hand over your drink ticket or get the fuck out of here.”

Usually, I wouldn’t hesitate to throw a punch, but Sonia was right when she said this wasn’t the place to draw attention to myself. It would be a bad business decision.

Plus, I don’t much feel like fighting. This is supposed to be a fun night. Perhaps the first real fun night of my life.

But violence always finds a way to follow me around…

“Stop being an asshole!” Bailey shouts at the chubby meathead.