AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You want to buy me a drink?”
“Where's Lizzie?” I say, surprised at how even my voice sounds. That's good, because that means I’ve still got some self-control left. I won't put my hands on a woman in anger, but I'm not going to let her get in my way either.
I hear her suck her teeth in disgust. “Oh you like redheads, do you? Lizzie’s over there, on the mic. I bet she’d love to see you. You want me to get you a bidding paddle? Round two is just about to start. I’m sure you can… catch up.”
Then I see her, when the overhead light catches a penny-bright flash of coppery hair. Elizabeth Whitmore, Lizzie to her friends. If she has any actual friends, that is. I'm fairly certain that everyone in her orbit is just a tool to be used.
She’s dangling a microphone from her fingertips as she struts around the perimeter of the circle, batting her eyelashes at every guy in this place. Got to be the center of the show, that Lizzie. If not as the sideshow, then as the ringleader.
“How about that drink, Daniel?” Claudia purrs as I sidestep past her. I hear her scoff as I walk away, cutting through the circle to come face-to-face with Lizzie.
This one, she's actually, utterly, irretrievably bad. Deep down bad as though brought up simmering in it. She doesn't even flinch when she sees me. Instead she squares off defiantly, setting her jaw and planting her heels about shoulder width apart. In all likelihood, she loves this: someone else to join her in the middle of the ring. When I feel everybody's eyes focus on us, I realize that's exactly what's happening too.
“Elizabeth, I believe I made myself very clear to you last year. This event is not sanctioned. Break it up now, or I will call the police.”
She tips her head to the side and pouts, her lower lip jutting out pinkly, glistening with a thick coating of honey-like gloss. She pauses dramatically, waiting for everybody to watch.
“I don't know what you mean, Daniel,” she simpers. She tosses her hair back extravagantly, letting it fan out in the light.
I lower my voice to a near whisper. I don't want to play into her games. “You know exactly what I mean. I'm only going to give you one chance, Elizabeth.”
She stares me down for a full ten seconds, her gaze never wavering, never blinking. She doesn't even twitch. I've seen grown men, trained men with decades of military experience who can't manage that kind of aggression. Truly, she is a terrifying beast.
And after that ten seconds, she winks at me and sticks out her tongue, then thumbs the switch on the microphone and turns on her heel so she can address the crowd.
“Sounds like somebody is mad they’re late to the party!” she announces over the PA, sauntering away from me, then pausing to jerk her head back in my direction. The circle of men laughs along with her, some nervously, some loud enough to indicate they’re already too drunk to have much sense left.
I stand there, considering my options. With this many people in the room, it's likely that at least a couple dozen are underage. Getting arrested in this town for underage drinking is an automatic expulsion from school. Since it is not exactly Ivy League, getting expelled from the school would mean the last chance a lot of these kids have for a college education would be going up in smoke.
I really don't want to call the police. I'm only slightly infuriated that Lizzie saw through that immediately.
She spins back around to face me again, taking a ridiculously exaggerated pose of sympathy. “Come on, Daniel! Big spender! You know you want to bid on some of these fine Chi Rho Pi cherry pies! Am I right, everybody?”
She sweeps her hand around the crowd, whipping these jackasses up into a bunch of catcalls and hoots. They think she's on their side. She knows getting them riled up means I'll have to back down.
The goddamn bake sale. It's a sorority “tradition” to haze the new girls by putting them through an auction of sorts. Tell them the money is going to charity. Tell them it's all for fun. But after one of these guys gets drunk and forks over a few hundred dollars to charity, he's going to think he's got some girl’s cherry pie coming to him, by rights. It makes me sick to my stomach.
I didn't want to look, but I can't help it. To my right, there are three girls on platforms, facing out to the crowd. Overdressed — or should I say underdressed — blinking against the bright lights and not saying a word.
One of them is absolutely clueless. She keeps brushing long strands of golden hair over her head and making cute little waving gestures at different guys in the crowd. Wow. I'm glad she at least appears to be enjoying herself.
The next one, a dark-haired girl with big, liquid eyes and a stubborn set to her jaw, looks like she's about to explode. She keeps scanning the crowd with her eyes narrowed, as though picking out potential targets. That's a good girl. That's definitely the right attitude.
Behind them is the third girl, facing away from me. She sways back and forth from foot to foot, her head tipped back slightly as though she's looking at the lights. The way she is swaying, I wonder if she's drunk. Another freshman trying to bounce out of college the minute they get here. So stupid! Were kids this stupid when I was their age?
I walk around toward her, trying to get a bead on her attitude. This poor thing, who dressed her up for this occasion? She's wearing this pink, stretchy top that crisscrosses her rib cage, barely covering her chest. Her arms hang limply at her sides, swaying as she moves her weight back and forth. As I watch, she picks up one ankle and then the other in a curiously athletic gesture, like a gymnast stretching before a floor routine.
She breathes out slowly, too slowly for the situation she's actually in, as though she doesn't even really know what's going on. I see the column of her abdominal muscles flexing with each breath and the pulse in her throat. Subconsciously, I count it: 54. So she is an athlete, with a resting heart rate of 54 beats a minute. Not bad, considering somebody's trying to sell her ass for money.
Her short, bobbed hair curls underneath the curve of her jaw, just brushing that downy, smooth skin. She looks like a doll, one of those porcelain Russian dolls. From the languid grace of her long fingers, I can easily imagine her as a gymnast, one of those magically gifted young people who seem totally unaffected by gravity like the rest of us. She so dainty, so unaware what's going on, I want to pick her up, to fold her inside my jacket and carry her away from here. She
doesn't deserve this.
“So, you guys ready to get going again? You ready for round two?” Lizzie hollers, whipping up the crowd. They yell and whoop back in her, waving their round paddles in the air.
At the sound, the young one in front of me suddenly looks down, making eye contact with me. Her lips part as though she gasps, and she blinks slowly, too slowly. She almost seems like she's not going open her eyes again.
“No fair trying to cut in, Daniel!” Lizzie announces over the PA. “You guys don’t want to see Daniel cheat, do you? Let him know!”
