“Yeah, well you—”
“Benton, what are you and the prospect talking about?” Prescott demands from the other end of the table. “Care to share with your brothers?”
He addresses the question to Bent, but his eyes latch on to my face, and I don’t look away.
“Nothing,” Bent answers easily, lifting the joint to his lips. “Finals.”
“Ah, finals.” Prescott lopsides a phony grin. “That’s right. I remember from his application that our prospect is summa cum laude.”
“Not yet,” I remind him. “One more semester.”
It’s a miracle my GPA hasn’t suffered with all the ridiculous errands and stunts Prescott has assigned me.
“But it’ll happen,” he replies, his smile several degrees warmer than his frosty blue eyes. “You’re a smart guy. Here on scholarship, right?”
The silent implication: how else could I afford Kerrington? It’s true. My dad is retired military and my stepmother is a teacher. I wasn’t raised with the luxuries these guys took for granted growing up.
But I will have them. Unlike these spoiled brats, I’ll earn them.
All of this runs through my head while Prescott and I stare at one another, neither showing our hands or our thoughts. Bent said Prescott “knows” about Banner, which can’t be good. I’m waiting to hear what this last rite of passage is, and it better not have anything to do with her. She’d laugh in my face if she knew the idiotic shit I’ve been doing to get into some secret society that will supposedly pave my way in the future. Banner doesn’t do shortcuts and doesn’t look for fast tracks. She is a fast track. The girl’s certified Mensa, for God’s sake.
Her brain was the first thing about her that turned me on. We faced off once in our Debate & Public Speaking class. Needless to say, she shredded my every argument and ripped apart each of my rebuttals.
I could barely walk back to my seat my dick was so hard.
“Are you ready for the final rite?” Prescott asks, reminding me that unfortunately I’m still here.
“Sure.”
I’ve found saying less is always better with Prescott. He’s like a parasite leeching any word he can exploit or drain.
“You’ve met and exceeded every challenge so far,” Prescott says. “For your final rite, you will fuck a fat girl.”
A stunned silence spreads around his words like spilled milk. Really, that’s not entirely accurate since I’m the only one who seems stunned. Every other face around the table reflects excitement, discomfort, curiosity, or some mixture of all three. Even Bent watches me impassively, waiting for my response.
They don’t have long to wait.
“What the hell?” A scowl breaks out over my face like a rash. “You want me to fuck some random fat girl? I don’t understand what—”
“Not random,” Prescott interrupts. “Banner Morales.”
Fury sets a small blaze at my feet, licks up over my legs and the rest of my body. My heart is a lump of coal catching fire in my chest and burning until it hurts. So I’m basically a chimney with no chute.
“Repeat that.” My voice drops to a deceptive quiet that doesn’t bely the emotions roaring inside of me.
“I said you have to fuck a fat girl,” Prescott reiterates, his face an unreadable mask, but his eyes telling; vibrant, cruel blue. “Banner Morales.”
I’d appreciate the irony of this final challenge being something I fully intended to do anyway if it wasn’t so insulting to one of the few people I not only tolerate but really like. If it wasn’t intended to hurt her.
“I won’t do that.”
At least not for him. When I fuck Banner, it’ll be purely for me and for her.
“And she’s not fat,” I snap.
Prescott’s abrupt laughter shatters the quiet only he and I break at intervals while everyone else watches.
“We’ll say pleasingly plump if that makes you feel better, Foster.” His mouth zigzags into an icicle smile. “Either way, fuck her or you won’t get in.”
Later, when logic and a cooler head prevails, I’ll make sense of this, but right now I only know that Prescott, for some reason, wants to demean Banner and thought he would use me to do it.
“The only fucking there will be, Prescott,” I grind out, “is however you manage to fuck yourself.”
Bent groans behind me—the first sign that he is, unlike the rest of the waxen zombies assembled around the table, alive.
“Foster,” Bent hisses at my elbow. “All you have to do—”
“Shut the hell up.” I whip a look around to him. “You knew about this?”
“Good God, Foster,” Prescott intones from the head of the table. “Put a bag over her head and take the top so she doesn’t crush you. It’ll be over before you know it.”
I stand so abruptly my chair falls behind me and crashes to the floor. His words have barely polluted the air before I’m at his side and have one of his arms twisted behind his back and his face pressed to the table.
The other guys mumble and cough and protest weakly, but I spread a glare around the table in case any of them feel the need to defend this motherfucker whom they don’t even like or respect. The Pride? Give me a damn break. These men aren’t lions. They’re sheep who follow and bray.
“You’re making a huge mistake, Foster,” Prescott screams, straining futilely to loosen my hold on his arm and head. “No way you’re in after this.”
“You tiny-dick son of a bitch,” I growl. “Do I look like I still want to be in your pathetic secret treehouse club?”
I tighten my grip on his arm, watching with satisfaction the discomfort pinching his features.
“Not only do I officially withdraw my bid for admission to this foolishness you’re masquerading as brotherhood,” I bend to say in his ear, “but if I hear you bothered or hurt Banner in any way, I’ll beat you with your own belt and knock the teeth down your throat.”