Chapter One
ZANDER
Ireach out and strike Geoffrey Barber across the face with the flat of my hand. His head flies to the side and a spray of bloody droplets cascades from his mouth.
“Welcome to Valens House at Warwick, arsehole,” I say with no hint of welcome in my voice.
In fact, there is no emotion in my voice at all.
It is flat and colorless. I have to force myself to keep it that way, so as not to betray any hint of the pleasure that I get from disciplining this piece of shit freshman.
I feel heat swelling in my stomach and, I admit it, my cock starts to harden.
“Oh, did that hurt, Geoffrey?” I ask in a mock-concerned drawl. “Perhaps you would like something for the pain. What do you recommend, my man? I mean you’re the expert on drugs, or rather your brother is.”
Geoffrey’s older brother is in his last year of studying pharmacology at the University of California.
Another student there has already snitched on him, and has told us all about Marlon Barber.
I now know that Geoffrey’s brother gave up his table-waiting job at Ruby Tuesday’s to concentrate on selling roofies and party drugs to college freshers, but it is only an educated guess that he passed some of those roofies to his little brother.
That is why we are here, giving Geoffrey the benefit of the doubt and an opportunity to put his side of the story.
Yeah, right. I smile inwardly.
“Do you know what makes you so stupid, Geoffrey? You’re already in Alpha Tau AND you have a sister sorority of over one hundred gorgeous young women.
What’s more, they are having their Derby Days this week, aren’t they?
All those parties and challenges and women literally ripping their clothes off to be noticed, and then some.
They’re giving it away, Geoffrey! What on earth made you think spiking girls’ drinks at a party on campus was cool? ”
“You have the wrong guy,” Geoffrey says wildly. “It wasn’t me!”
“Oh Geoffrey,” I say. “The it-wasn’t-me excuse lost its value just after you left kindergarten. Be a man for God’s sake and own up to your mistakes.”
He more than deserves what he’s getting.
He is a new pledge at Alpha Tau, a frat that already has a bad enough reputation to taint all of the new pledges, by association, for the next fifty years.
And Geoffrey chose this frat. His dad went there and had the time of his life.
Seems the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
All of the warning signs are there. Boisterous behavior?
Check. Huge ego? Check (His Twitter page is a love poem to toxic masculinity).
Trust fund to clean up after him? Check. You get the idea.
“Well, I mean it wasn’t my idea.” Geoffrey scrambles for an explanation. “Part of my final Alpha Tau challenge is to get picture proof of me in a threesome with a couple of gorgeous girls. This, this seemed like the easiest way to—“
I cut him off whatever he was going to say with a punch to the stomach, and all that comes out of his mouth is air and a terrified squeak.
“Hazing, Geoffrey?” I challenge. “You’re gonna blame hazing? Everyone knows there is no hazing at Warwick. I mean it’s illegal in 44 states!”
This statement is greeted with amused laughter from my companions: Shawn, Damien and Lucien.
We all know that hazing is alive and well in most frats and societies.
In fact, it is one of the reasons people join frats.
I know this from personal experience. My own society, Valens, is the top frat — or we prefer to use the words “house” or “society” these days — at Warwick.
We haze, we just don’t go around making it so obvious.
Yes, we’re known for getting what we want by any means necessary.
Yes, we break the law and sometimes hurt people.
Yes, to it all. But this moment isn’t just about showing the world that no one gets to fuck with us and get away with it.
This one is personal. We make it damned clear to our pledges that snitches get stitches.
No one breaks the code of silence, no matter the society.
But Geoffrey went too far, too fast. He cut corners and his fellow frat brothers let him.
Hell, they even encouraged him. Since last Saturday, 26 women have complained of being drugged at a house party in the south end of the campus and two other complaints came in after a small on-campus gathering on Sunday.
Worst of all, one young woman was found unconscious, and an off-duty security guard had to intervene.
He got her to the hospital before she could die of roofie-poisoning, but doctors had to put her on a respirator to save her.
Then, some bright spark at the local paper discovered that the fraternity’s head brother had put the hospital charges on his personal credit card — so that no one else would know — hoping that the frat would reimburse him afterward.
It was too much of a drama by then, and the police were called.
Now the dean and the college justice system have gotten involved and are launching an investigation.
So, what we need is a handy and culpable scapegoat, to hand over to the dean to shut the investigation down.
Once Geoffrey does the ‘mea culpa’ speech, accepts his punishment, and the case is closed, the rest of us can go back to normal.
Geoffrey’s eyes dart around us frantically as he begins to pant in fear.
I nod to Lucien who steps forward and punches Geoffrey hard.
Geoffrey’s arms instinctively jerk toward his stomach, but they’re tied to the arms of the wooden chair we have him sitting on.
He tries to curl up on himself, but his ankles are tied to the chair’s legs.
Even his chest is restrained and, in the end, he settles for a grimace.
That’s about all he can do in his position.
Shawn steps forward next and follows up Lucien’s punch with one of his own, this time a vicious punch to the ribs.
Again, Geoffrey winces in pain and he cries out this time.
Damien needs no permission to take his turn, and he walks up to Geoffrey and stands in front of him.
He doesn’t punch him. He reaches down and takes Geoffrey’s middle finger, yanking it back until it snaps.
Geoffrey screams as Damien stands back, satisfied.
“Don’t be shy.” I say. “Keep going and get the bastard talking.”
I know I could make him talk more quickly than these three could, but where’s the fun in that? I don’t mind at all if this is going to go on for longer than necessary.
Shawn and Lucien both take their turns again, and again, they both choose to pummel Geoffrey’s torso area.
Damien moves in for his turn and this time, he isn’t messing around with a broken finger.
He takes Geoffrey’s ear in his fingers and twists it.
Geoffrey screams and Damien twists it harder, lifting it as he does.
Geoffrey tries to come up with it but he can only sit helplessly screaming while Damien does his best to detach the ear.
“OK, OK. I’ll talk. It was me. I’m sorry. I didn’t … I don’t know what came over me. I’ll tell the dean it was me and me alone! I’ll do whatever you want to make it right, I swear it. I’ll apologize to that girl as well. My parents have money. I’ll give her money,” Geoffrey all but screams.
None of us pay any attention to him. All eyes are on me now. I smile at the others and nod my head.
“Go,” I say. “Wait for me in the upstairs lounge.”
Shawn and Lucien hate anything like this. They will do it because it has to be done, but they get no pleasure from it. Damien, however, loves it — as do I. However, he knows better than to go against my wishes, so he reluctantly joins the others as they file to the exit.
I wait until the door closes behind the three of them and then I turn to Geoffrey.
“So, what was it like?” I ask.
Geoffrey wisely refrains from answering.
“Were they good? Did it make you feel like a man getting your picture taken with those half-drugged cuties? Did you feel powerful?” I am shouting now, and Geoffrey cowers back in the chair. Yeah, he should be afraid, if he knows what’s good for him.
“You fucking disgust me,” I say.
I move to the trolley behind Geoffrey where I laid out everything I’d need for this. I pick up a pair of pliers and go back around to face Geoffrey. He sees the pliers and his face blanches and he begins shaking his head from side to side, tears streaming down his face.
“No,” he whispers. “No.”
I only take one step towards him, and he starts to scream for help.
No one will hear him; this room is fully sound-proofed.
I made sure of that after I moved in. When someone has done something that makes me want to do this shit to them, then I like to hear them scream, but I don’t want the entire college to know.
I grab Geoffrey’s left hand and use the pliers to pull off the nail of his littlest finger.
His scream changes from one of fear to one of agony and I smile.
I love to inflict pain. I love to feel the power it offers.
I love the moment when they realize that I’m not going to stop just because they cry and beg.
I love to watch their eyes change as they finally accept that hope is gone, and that it will end when I fucking say it will.
An unwilling smile twists on my face. I shouldn’t enjoy this – inflicting pain – but I do.
I always have. Ever since I was four years old – that four-month heat wave I spent stomping on every ant I could find in the summer house, that satisfying crunch of the coyote’s neck as my foot connected with it mid-lunge for my mom’s throat – it has been like this.
It’s not retribution – it’s justice. And that’s the hitch. The one that has caused me more grief than any other: I love to hurt the deserving.