I wear on my right middle finger. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Way I hear it, you spent the night with a Kappa last Friday and jumped right into bed with a Tri-Delt on Thursday.”
It sounds crass when he says it that way. But yeah, I suppose that’s how it looks. He doesn’t know, of course, that Taylor and I shared a lovely platonic evening of conversation. And I can’t defend her honor without also blowing her cover. I trust these guys, but it’s inevitable that anything I say gets back to their girls and, well, people talk.
“Who told you about the Delta hookup?” I ask curiously, because Natalie’d snuck me into the sorority house after midnight. Apparently the Delta house has some ridiculous rule about dudes sleeping over.
“She did,” Foster answers, snickering.
I furrow my brow. “Huh?”
Bucky slides his phone from his pocket. “Oh yeah, we all saw that pic. Hold on.” He taps the screen a few times. “Yeah, here it is.”
I peer at Bucky’s Instagram feed. And yup, there’s Natalie in a selfie giving the camera a thumbs-up while I’m in the lower corner of the frame, sound asleep. Below it, the caption reads, Look who scored. #Briarhockeyhottie #StickIt #BuzzerBeater #Goooaaalll
Real nice.
“I give it high marks for lighting and composition,” Foster says, laughing. Jackass.
“Hashtag puckbunny,” Bucky adds. “Hashtag—”
I take the gin and tonic from the bartender and head back inside to deliver it, shooting a middle finger at the guys as I leave.
It’s not the ribbing that bothers me. Or even the picture, really. I just feel kind of…cheap. Someone’s fuck for likes. I might be a little promiscuous, but I don’t treat women like conquests. A simple exchange of physical pleasure, where everyone gets what they want and no lies are told, is perfectly healthy. Why go and make the other person feel like a piece of meat?
Then again, I guess it isn’t any more than I deserve. Act like a fuckboy, get treated like a fuckboy.
When I return to the ballroom, the concert jazz band is playing and the plates from lunch have been cleared. Most of the guests have taken to the dance floor now, including my bejeweled cougar. I set the drink on the table and have a seat, praying that nobody comes over to force me to dance. So far, so good. I sip my beer and people-watch. Soon, a conversation a couple tables away catches my ear.
“Oh please. Don’t give her so much credit. It was a dare, okay? It’s not like he was hitting on her or something.”
“Trust me,” a girl’s voice answers, “I heard what was going on in there. He saw those porn star tits and ass and probably figured as long as he fucked her from behind, he wouldn’t have to look at her butter face.”
“I’d bang Taylor’s body with your face,” a dude responds.
My fingers tighten over the beer bottle. These asshats are talking about Taylor?
“Are you kidding me, Kevin? Say that again and I’ll put your balls in my flat iron.”
“Damn, Abigail, I’m kidding. Down, girl.”
Abigail. Taylor’s sorority sister who made her take that stupid dare?
I spare a quick peek over my shoulder. Yeah, that’s her. I remember her standing in the hall at the Kappa house when I made my walk of shame that morning. She’s sitting with a group of Kappas I recognize from the party, and a few other guys. Taylor was right; she’s a grade-A bitch.
Assuming she must be here somewhere, I scan the room for Taylor, but I can’t find her.
“You know she wants to be a teacher?” another girl says. “She’ll totally end up like one of those chicks who gets pregnant banging their students.”
“Oh, dude, she should do teacher porn,” one of the guys responds. “Those double Ds would make mad money.”
“How does anyone still make money on porn? Isn’t that shit free now?”
“You should see the stuff we have on video from pledge week. It would crash your spank bank.”
It isn’t until the cougar returns for her gin and tonic and leaves a smudged lipstick print on my cheek that I realize my fists are clenched under the table and I’ve been holding my breath. I’m not entirely sure what to make of that. These people suck, yeah, but why I am getting all bent out of shape about a girl I knew for one night? My teammates always joke that nothing ever fazes me, and normally they’re right—I’m very good at letting shit slide off my shoulders. Especially