Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Zeke
Ipull up in the driveway like I do every morning, but instead of jumping straight out into the cold, my forehead connects with the steering wheel.
My times this morning were shithouse. Coach was quick to remind me that swimming is as much about being mentally prepared as physically, and all it takes is one bad swim and the Olympics is gone.
At least now I know that the night before the Olympic trials, I shouldn’t go for an easy hookup that can turn complicated in a second flat.
I squeeze my eyes closed. I should have left it. Ignored the urge and come to terms with the fact we’d both moved on from … whatever we had. The problem is it was perfect … right up until the end.
Hearing Charles gasp my name as he came sucked the mystery out of our hookup and slammed me firmly back into reality. Before that, he’d been a soft mouth, a sexy voice, desperate need in a willing package. I’d been able to switch off the who and concentrate on the what.
We’d agreed on transactional, which worked. I compartmentalized, stopped it from falling into that realm of more when I have nothing I can offer beyond the next few months.
Then with one word, it was Charles there, and I haven’t been able to shake the image since.
It was … fuck, it really shouldn’t have been so hot.
All night, I’ve been plagued with thoughts about what he would look like on his knees for me.
He’s grown up knowing he’s going to own the world one day, and he looks the part too.
Dark-rimmed, hooded eyes, haughty expression, full upper lip, and cheekbones I want to take a bite out of.
Knowing all that refined, upper-class perfection was trembling for me goes to my head.
I drag my ass from the car and go about my morning routine.
I’m too tired to jerk off, can barely be fucked to find clean clothes, and the only reason I shave the line through my eyebrow is because it’s growing back too much and I don’t feel like me without it.
It has nothing to do with my meeting later.
And having to face Charles.
I shake out my arms at the thought, still not sure how I’m going to play it. I’m … Shit, I think I’m nervous. The anonymity about what we were doing might have been an illusion, but it meant being able to get shit done without all the awkwardness. I wonder if I can pass this meeting off to Larken?
The thought of Charles and Larken drinking coffee together and discussing the past week makes my jaw clench.
The meetings don’t rank highly when it comes to actual importance, but giving Charles a place to vent his frustrations has stopped him from going to the dean about us.
It’s something I should let Larken handle.
But … well, I wouldn’t want Charles to think I’m avoiding him.
Or for him to get irritated that I’m blowing off his “concerns.”
Besides, Larken could never handle Charles, and I’d be a dick to subject him to it. Obviously.
Damn. I guess that means I’m going to have to suck it up and go.
My nerves over the meeting are more intense than they should be.
They remind me of the first time I went to meet Charles.
His offer had caught me totally off guard, and even though he’d tried to laugh it off, I just …
couldn’t. He’s gorgeous—I’m not blind—and he was offering me the kind of experience I’d never let myself have before.
Sex, with a man, and the best part was we were taking the emotions out of it.
I could focus on my swimming career and not feel guilty about my intense swim team schedule leaving me with no time, while indulging that side of me I’d always shoved down and hidden.
Yet here we are, six months later, and I still haven’t had a chance to touch his dick, and now I can’t get him out of my head.
The kitchen is blissfully empty as I make my breakfast. Yogurt, granola, and berries, with a side of cream-cheese-covered bagel to fill that gaping hunger that never seems to leave. I take a seat at the small table we keep in here and begin my morning scour of social media.
I’ll never tell my brothers this, but I hate social media. Most everyone in the house lives for the selfies and documenting all the dumb shit they do. But for me, social media means evidence, and evidence can be used against you.
Personally, I have to keep my image clean for if I do make it big one day.
Presidentially, every morning I’m holding my breath as I scroll through the platforms, praying I won’t have to do damage control over some dumb Sigma shit.
And today, it looks like I’ve lucked out.
Fuck yes. I open the final app, which isn’t one I worry about too often.
The Dirt is a piece-of-shit site for Karens who want to whine about anything and everything.
There’s a group for West Haven, and my brothers have been on it for petty shit a handful of times: to those stupid fraternity morons who got too drunk at La Piedra, your disruptiveness ruined my anniversary dinner or some frat dudes stole my gnome and took him around West Haven on a tourist trip.
I’m worried he’s been violated—how do I tell if they’ve filled him with drugs?
I’d be willing to put money down that the majority of fraternity-based grievances can be traced back to Robbie and Chad. Names are never mentioned though, so other than a quick pull your head in, I don’t have to worry much about those posts.
Well, until now.
I almost choke on my bagel when I read a heading in angry, bold caps.
SHUT DOWN SIGMA BETA PSI!
What the dick is this?
I try to swallow, but the more I read, the more I can feel an easy few months slipping away from me.
Affectionately called the “jock house,” these seemingly loveable dumbasses have always been painted as positive beacons within the community on Greek Row.
The rewards and accolades they’ve helped their respective teams bring to the school has meant some of their more questionable activities have gone unnoticed.
And while pranks, shenanigans, and general tomfoolery can be ignored, hazing cannot. If Dean Hutchins doesn’t get a tighter leash on his pets, someone is going to end up hurt.
This isn’t a wholesome brotherhood of athletes. These are dangerous men doing sick, twisted things.
They need supervision. They need to be given parameters to operate under. And if those things fail, they need to be shut down.
Before it’s too late.
What—and I cannot stress this e-goddamn-nough—the fuck?
I read over it a couple of times, breakfast long forgotten, as the message sinks in. Hazing? There’s no way.
What in the ever-loving-frat-father-divinity is this? Apart from blatant fucking lies.
I force myself to cool it and try to think clearly when all I want to do is shoot off the handle. My heart is thumping with panic, but I remind myself it’s being a dramatic SOB and needs to cool it and let me think.
This site is popular. Hugely. But not so much with the fraternity crowd. This post being made on here at all and not on Insta or something is weird to begin with, but then accusations about hazing? When we’re all super careful?
There’s no doubt about it: this feels personal.
The only thing keeping me calm is the reminder that it’s unlikely to be seen by anyone at WHU, let alone the dean.
Everything will be okay.
That reminder doesn’t help the spark of anger that shoots through me when I read it all again.
And then I focus in on one word.
Parameters.
No.
Fucking.
Way.
There’s only one person I know who uses that word—anyone in this house would pick up on it, given how much shit we give him over it.
The same dude who had my dick in his mouth last night.
Charles fucking Levine.