CHAPTER I: What the Heck?

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Part 1.

I'd zoned-out, but not for long. Because when I woke, water still hissed, filling the toilet. And old-school hip-hop, Outkast's dope-ass "back of the bus" tune, thumped from downstairs. And I still stood, holding the Scope that Omega house kept in the second-floor bathroom to help the brothers freshen their breath after vomiting. Though in my case, I needed to purge the taste of clove cigarettes.

Disgusting.

How that hot emo chick Circe I'd just banged could smoke such nasty crap beat me, but no matter. She was sexy in a skeevy art-chick way: tats, pink hair, and vintage store gear. Too bad she didn't live up to expectations. I was thinking "freaky-deaky," but she wouldn't even let me bump nasties. Instead, it was just a ho-hum hummer.

Oh well, a subpar blow job is still a blow job.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Giving birth in there?"

I laughed, recognizing the voice. "Give me a sec, Squee, need to gargle."

"Who is that? I know you?"

I filled an empty beer-cup with Scope.

"Course you do, ass-munch. Ulysses Garrity, Fenton's older brother. I was rush chairman when you pledged."

"Ah, a legacy, an old man. Prostate problems?"

I laughed. Squee's always been a card.

The cool mint tingled on my tongue, and I counted sixty, spat, and exited. Squee had cornered a hot platinum blonde in a tight, form-fitting State jersey, uniform number sixty-nine. Easy meat perhaps, but tenderloin.

I missed college. Sure, I like the challenging workaday world where what you do has real consequences. Worlds apart from school, pretending Othello matters. But compared to teenaged shorties, booze and blow? No contest. Especially today, when the State U Bucks, my alma mater, steamrolled our rivals, the North Wolverines.

My heart expanded, ecstatic with collegiate nostalgia, and I patted Squee on the back. "All yours, bro."

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In my experience, Squee, a fifth-year senior and a fixture haunting the Omega Theta Pi house since my day, would cut me up. But instead of a witty comment, he stopped dead in his tracks, confused and delighted. Like you could hear Eminem scratching the vinyl in his brain.

But he regained his composure in a beat. "Thought you were someone else." Squee raised his beer, his freckled face round with apology. "You know, too much of this..."

"Amen." I nodded. "Take care, gonna grab a brew and find my bro."

What remained unsaid is that I needed my younger brother Fenton because he had the blow, and I needed a bump. But as I stepped off, I noticed sixty-nine giving me a vicious side-eye. But I grinned at her, shook my head, and drifted kegward: down the stairs, through the raging partiers. The DJ, a pro the fraternity had imported from Cincinnati, spun some wicked beats through his amazing sound system. The house smelled like a house party: pheromones, sweat, beer, tobacco, and the skunky yet sweet scent of weed as I eased into the keg line, which seemed to run to Cleveland.

But luck was on my side.

Because the DJ shifted from R&B to the State fight-song, and almost everyone in the queue dashed from the line to the backyard dancefloor, high-fiving, and hollering. "Fight, fight, down the field." I had no complaints because I soon grabbed two brews: one to chug, one to hug.

My thirst quenched, I scanned the crowd, expecting to see Fenton high-fiving his Omega bros, but he wasn't there. However, I spotted Fenton's buddy from our country club, a current Omega plebe named PJ, weaving free of the crowd. I bopped his way.

"Yo, PJ, you seen my brah?"

PJ was straight-up dude: muscular, short but barrel-chested sporting a tight State tank-top for the ladies. Guy must've been ripped because his forehead furled as the question penetrated his thick skull. "Brother?"

I scoffed, what a dumbass.

He had to remember me from the country club. Worse, Fenton had made PJ and some other pledge pay for our Uber Black fare to the tailgate. They rode with us, and Fenton made both chug a bottle of MD/2020 on the way. Heavy drinking at sunup may have fried PJ's memory, but him forgetting me kinda burned.

I mean, I'm an Omega legacy, his fraternity brother, and have known him since we were kids. And yet, he forgets me?

But I let it go. I was here to PAR-TAY, and besides, I needed a bump.

So I said, "Fenton Garrity."

"Fenton's upstairs..." PJ trailed off, screwing his face, "with an... uhm... a lady."

"Cum sock, or a hottie?" I asked.

PJ's eyes opened in shock, and he grinned. "Wow: unexpectedly cool. Anyway, a straight-up hottie."

Pleased, I leaned forward. "Look, I'm running out of steam, so I need a bump. Can you help a brother out?"

"Sorry, no nose-candy here."

My shoulders deflated, the upset souring me, but there is a God because Squee popped from nowhere, placing a hand on our shoulders. "Did someone say 'nose candy?'"

PJ smirked, pointing my way, and I smiled a face-full of cheese, asking, "You got?"

Squee nodded, a devilish grin creeping over his face. "Follow me, girls."