Page 79 of These Secret Years

“Is this really necessary?” I ask as we meet out front on the sidewalk to head over to the party. “Don’t all you guys get laid enough?”

Rod slaps the back of my head. “It’s not even about that, QB. If these ladies are selling services, I’m assuming they’re, you know, good. And getting some decent head might be exactly what you need to loosen the fuck up.”

I huff. “Yeah, all right.” I don’t say what I’m actually thinking, which is if you want good head, give me fifty bucks, and I’ll blow your damn mind.

“Wait. Did you just say you’re gonna hook up with someone tonight?”

I laugh. “I didn’t.”

“You’re really gonna pay a hundred bucks just to look?”

“You’ll be the first person I tell if I change my mind.”

I don’t like giving up my phone at the door, and for the first time, I think about getting a burner phone. One maybe only Blake knows the number to where I can keep all the stuff I want to keep on lock down as private as possible. The girl who takes my phone from me in exchange for a square of paper with a six digit number printed on it doesn’t look like she’d match any of my biometrics, though. Her face is thin and narrow with small, heavily made-up eyes. Her dyed pink hair rests in a thick puffy braid over her right shoulder, the ends falling between her breasts, shoved up and out by a tight, corset-style top.

She doesn’t appear to recognize me or any of the guys, and while that’s unusual on campus, we’re in a stranger’s house several blocks away. The house itself is about as big as the one I share with the guys. Beyond the entryway isn’t a huge crowd, but it definitely looks and sounds like a party with string lights and a thrumming bass beat. Some people are dancing. Red Solo cups flash up and down in outstretched hands.

After the five of us pay our fees and hand over our phones, we head closer to the kitchen.

There’s plenty of alcohol, and the guys get to work filling their own cups. I scan the room, my gaze mainly finding the men. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that they all look older. I don’t know what we’ve walked into here, but I have to assume a bunch of girls got together and decided to take the men of this town for all they’re worth. I wonder briefly how they advertise, or if it’s all word of mouth. The men range from people who look like they could teach biology classes to basement dwelling gamers who have day jobs where it doesn’t matter what they look like.

The women, on the other hand—they’re young, mostly in dresses or skirts and all showing off their best assets. They could be at a sorority party, but in my experience at sorority parties, the women are a lot pickier about who they’re rubbing up against.

I notice some of them turning our direction and flashing excited smiles. Not to be an asshole, but as someone with a more discerning eye when it comes to men, from what I’ve seen, we are the better looking options in the room.

“You recognize anybody?” Deandre asks from over my shoulder.

“No. You?”

“Nah. I’d say it looks like a regular party, but these dudes…”

“Yeah,” I agree. “You don’t think maybe we should leave ‘em to it?”

“Too late,” he says because there goes Rod, right into the thick of it, approaching a blonde in a blue sequined dress with a V-neck that dips almost down to her navel. Dillon and Derek are the next ones out.

I sigh. “This feels so unnecessary.”

“Look, I hate to say it, but I agree with Rod. Maybe getting your dick wet isn’t such a bad idea.”

“Are you saying I need to loosen up, too, because I’ve got news for you, I⁠—”

“It’s different when it’s not your own hand,” he says.

I don’t have time to say anything—not that I would know what to say to that—before he adds, “Let me help. Who looks good to you. You like blondes? Brunettes? Tall? Short? Are you an ass man?”

I can’t help it. I laugh.

He claps me on the back. “Knew it. All right, come with me. We’ll find you what you need.”

Before I’m forced to follow him into the living room, a hand slides down my arm. I turn to find a young woman about a foot shorter than me. She has a mass of braids piled on top of her head, and she’s immediately familiar, but I can’t place her.

“Welcome,” she says. “I’m Chelsea. And you are?”

Fucked.

I am fucked.

Chapter Seventeen