But who knows...maybe they named it that because they thought that it sounded manly?
People are everywhere. Girls and guys with the classic red solo cups that are the quintessential part of every college party. I won’t be partaking of that, thank you very much.
I take a deep breath before turning the corner and heading up the stairs toward the pounding bass and cacophony of voices spilling out from the open doors and windows. I can do this, is the constant refrain in my head on repeat. It’s only one night. I can do this.
The heels I’m wearing wobble under my feet, and someone whistles as I walk up the stairs. I resist the urge to pull down the short skirt of the dress. All I need to do is find the leader and get this over with. Once he says yes, I’ll find a quiet corner and hide for the rest of the night.
A guy with dark hair and a clearly drunk smile leans against the doorframe. “Hey there, welcome to Granite House.” He tries to pass me a red cup, but I push it away.
“No thanks. I’m looking for the leader.”
He squints at me. “The leader of what?”
“Granite House.”
“Yeah, we don’t have a leader here.” He uses his fingers for air quotes while looking down his nose at me. “We’re not a frat anymore. Haven’t you heard?”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, who decides who gets to live here.”
“It’s a vote.” His smile is now less drunk and more like he’s toying with me.
“Sure it is,” I say, about to give him a piece of my mind. But the memories of Taylor and Melody and the Tri Deltas fill my mind. If they were here, they’d tell me that this isn’t the way to get what I want. No, I need to be exactly who this guy thinks I am. I plaster on a smile. “Come on. You know what I’m asking, so show me who I’m looking for and maybe I’ll find you later and I’ll take that drink.”
He looks me up and down and takes in the dress that I’m wearing with one raised eyebrow. “The guy you’re looking for is Malcolm. He’s playing poker in the back.”
“Thanks.”
I drop the smile as soon as I’m past him. Malcom. I have a name at least. And he said toward the back. The back of where?
I weave through the party, scanning faces. The people I’m wading through are already drunk and it’s barely dark out. I guess this is what college means to them. It’s the day before classes start. I have no idea why anyone would want to get this drunk and go to class on their very first day with a hangover, but hey, to each their own, I guess.
What am I doing here? I wonder, not for the first time. But Tri Deltas aren’t like this. They don’t throw ragers. They might attend now and then, but once I’m a part of them, it won’t matter how many parties I show up to.
I’ll be part of a sisterhood, for good.
Tonight, though… Well. I wade through this mess. And hope that I can get the hell out of here by the time dawn breaks, since I have my first lab class tomorrow morning, early.
Another good reason not to drink.
As I slowly make my way through people dancing and making out and playing various drinking games, I also keep an eye out for the proof that I’m supposed to collect. So far I don’t see anything that would qualify, but I’ll find something.
Nearing the back of the house, there’s a huge kitchen that’s exploded in bags of chips, cases of beer, and some hard liquor too. I barely hold off rolling my eyes. You would think these people were trying to drown themselves in alcohol.
There’s another guy who looks too comfortable not to live here, stuffing his face with Doritos. “I’m looking for Malcolm,” I say.
He turns and looks at me, and his eyes drop along my body. “Why?”
“That’s my business,” I say, plastering on that smile again.
He points to the left. “In there.”
I walk toward a set of closed double doors, and I ignore the guys sputtering protests behind me as I walk straight through into a room that is far, far quieter than the rest of the house. Six guys sit around a table, playing cards. They look up at me as one when I come through.
“Party is back out there,” one of them says.
“I’m looking for Malcolm,” I say, holding my ground. I didn’t expect for this room to be this intimidating. But for some reason, the sudden quiet from the music and their casual ease makes them seem less like college students and more like the mafia. Especially with the pile of money in the center of the table.
One guy—though “guy” doesn’t begin to describe the tall dark and handsomely chiseled man seated directly across from me—meets my eyes. “I’m Malcolm, and if you can’t tell, I’m a little busy at the moment.”
“I came to talk to you.”
He flips his cards over. “Pair of aces.”
“Dammit,” another one says. “Every time.”
Malcolm grins. “You have a tell.” Then he looks at me. “This is a private game. What do you want?”
“I came to pledge to Granite House.”
Immediately it feels like all air has been sucked out of the room. I expected… I don’t know what. Protests, maybe. Outrage, shock? Some of the guys look shocked, true. But Malcom? His face is unreadable.
They might have a tell in poker, but he sure doesn’t.
Malcolm glances around the table. “Give us a minute.”
The rest of the guys around the table get up and slip past me without another word. While they all file out, I get a chance to look at Malcolm. He’s a walking cologne ad. The kind that’s filmed in black and white while a perfectly chiseled shirtless man jumps into the ocean and
