Chapter 9 Mackenzie
Omega Epsilon Rho always did know how to throw a party.
Red cups pepper the front lawn—some crushed, others still half full—and people are scattered everywhere.
A crowd packs the front steps, spilling onto the yard, all sweaty, loud, and drunk enough to think that shit is going to end well.
Someone’s already screaming “CHUG!” like a fucking prayer.
I don’t even know why I came here—I could have been home writing.
It would have been an even better decision to check on my mom, but, of course, Gavin and my friends convinced me I didn’t want to miss “the party of the year.”
People are sitting on the damn roof. Legs dangling over the edge, beer bottles glinting in their hands—one guy raises his arms to the sky like he’s the king of poor decisions, ushering Tiffany and me in.
She grabs my wrist, dragging me forward with this excited little bounce while I try not to twist my ankle on the cup graveyard.
“Till I Die” by Anyma and Solomun pounds through subwoofer speakers, and it’s so damn loud I can make out every lyric before I even step inside.
The moment we step in the front door, there’s a boy passed out on the stairs—wearing nothing but a makeshift diaper.
I'm pretty sure the bent wings on his back suggest a dollar store version of Cupid.
The house is covered in what seems to be at least half the student body, way past its capacity.
Should any other frat or soro try this shit, students would be expelled in droves, but OEP is more bulletproof than vibranium.
They do what they want, they say what they want, they party when they please, and no one dares to interfere.
Administration approves and encourages their wildest imaginations—case in point, the tunnel of love running halfway through campus, though no one is sure why.
What I want to know is whose daddy has their dick so far down President Woodrich’s throat that they’ve bitched him into submission… but I digress.
A blonde girl runs past me in nothing but her bra and panties, soaked from head to toe, and the boy who chases after her isn’t in a much better state. Their pupils are blown wide from whatever drugs are coursing through their veins—they have to be high to be running around this cesspool barefoot.
Gavin’s voice breaks the corner before he does. “OEP! OEP!” he chants ferally, leading a group of boys to knock into Tiffany, barking like rabid animals. One of them steps on her foot before his beer tumbles out of his hand, splashing the front of her dress.
“Jesus Christ! Watch it, numbnuts,” she screeches, shoving him so hard he almost slips in the puddle of foam pooling under her pumps. Like always, as soon as he turns to meet her ocean blue gaze, his barbaric rage melts from his body.
“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He chuckles nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you okay?”
“I see stupidity thrives here. No, I'm not okay, you fucking idiot! You ruined my outfit!” She stomps her hot pink heel in the beginnings of a full-on Tiffany-grade meltdown.
“Ayo…ladies, ladies, what's going on here?” Gavin swoops in smoothly, intent on defusing the situation.
“Your fucking lackey threw his beer all over me.”
“I didn't—”
“I didn't ask you, pledge.” Gavin silences the boy with an icy gaze. If looks could kill, the boy would be dead.
Gavin’s not a Horseman, but being best friends with one sure as hell helps—the poor pledge in front of us is living proof of that. He’s all but pissing his pants, quaking so hard he rivals the bassdrop.
Around here, the Horsemen are basically gods—presidents of Omega Epsilon Rho, born from legacy, money, or the kind of ambition that makes people both worship and fear them.
They’re the ones who make the rules, and somehow, everyone’s okay with it.
They walk into a room, and conversations just…
die. Eyes follow. It’s as if the air shifts to make room for them.
Gavin may not have the title, but he doesn’t need it.
West—his best friend, his brother in everything but blood—is one of them.
And that connection alone gives Gavin a certain shine.
Professors know his name, and no one ever tries to check him.
It’s not fair, but that’s the way it works here.
Power by proximity—and Gavin uses it to his advantage every time.
“Hey, babe.” I tip onto my toes, cooing into his ear before I nip at his lobe, “Let’s not make a scene, hm?”
All of his attention snaps to me, and I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that he thinks he’s going to get lucky.
“The fates are in your favor tonight, my man.” He grins, his eyes never leaving mine as I look up at him through dark lashes. He slaps the middle of the boy’s chest twice, harder than necessary, before shoving him away. “Get the fuck out of here.”
In the next moment, his tongue is down my throat. The noxious tang of beer swirls on my tongue; his kiss is so wet and sloppy I almost gag.
“HELLOOOOO!” Tiffany belts over the music, blessedly causing Gavin to retract his slimy tongue.
Our heads shift in her direction. “Why isn’t anyone the slightest bit worried about my ruined Versace?
They’re custom, ya know?” She snaps that fucking bubble gum again, and I want to bash her brains in.
I don’t say anything, but I know my face is doing all the talking—my tongue slides over my teeth as my eyes narrow.
“A’ight, babe,” Gavin says, his eyes shifting to meet mine again. “Lemme take Tiff upstairs and see if I can’t find something for her to put on. Meet you by the tunnel in twenty?” He pops a quick kiss onto my lips before grabbing Tiffany’s hand and leading her through the crowded foyer.
“Yeah, definitely,” I huff, watching them disappear.
I fucking hate Valentine’s Day, and I don’t know why I let my friends drag me into this public display of whatever circle of hell this is.
As I make my way through the blur of bodies, a boy crashes into me on the makeshift dance floor.
And to my absolute dismay, his hand glides to the small of my back, pulling me in.
A salacious smile plays across his lips, causing shudders to ripple through my body.
My heart races in my chest, and my throat constricts, but I don’t show it.
“’Sup, noob?”
“I haven’t been a freshman in a while, Eric.” I try to push him away, but his grip only tightens—drawing me closer until his lips fall against my ear.
“You’ll always be my little noob, Mackenzie. Don’t you remember how good we were together? Don’t you remember how much fun we had?” he says with that mixture of confidence and cocky flooding in, the one that makes every crevice of my skin crawl.
I’m not even astonished anymore by his brazenness. With a smile, I yank the red solo from his hand, splashing the contents of a concoction gone wrong into his face. Some gets in my hair, but I don’t give a fuck; he deserves my anger—he deserves worse.
After the school had determined that my report was nothing more than a “misunderstanding between peers”—even though I went straight to them the morning after the incident occurred—he was allowed back onto campus following a week’s suspension that he used for a family vacation.
Smiling, laughing as if what he took from me meant nothing—as if I was nothing.
Was your skirt too short? Did you lead him on? Did you have too much to drink? Those were the questions the dean asked when I told her.
But here’s the thing, I said yes to kissing him. I said yes to going up to his room. I said yes to the one drink he offered me. But I never said yes to his hand slipping up my skirt or the picture he took when he was through.
Because I couldn't.
All of my pleas to have him expelled fell on deaf ears, and my statement was buried so deep that no one found out other than the people in that room, and I didn’t bother telling anyone else, because no one cares. And since then, Eric Carter has made it his mission to remind me of that fact.
“Fuck you, asshole.” My voice trembles with vicious heat, my blood simmering just beneath the surface of my skin. And although I find the will not to claw through his face, I shove him hard before stomping away, ignoring the nasty slurs he yells after me.
I need a drink. I need anything that will take the fucking edge off.
One more second in that room with that smug idiot and I’m gonna end up on someone’s newsfeed for murder.
My jaw is clenched so tight I’m surprised my teeth don’t crack, and I can feel my cheeks heating as I shove past a couple making out in the middle of the hallway.
The noise drops by half when I find myself in the dining room, as if I’ve stepped into some weird frat oasis, allowing me a moment to gather myself. The dining room looks…festive? Romantic? It’s a Valentine’s Day massacre in dessert form.
There’s a long table draped in a pink cloth, covered with cupcakes in swirled red icing, bowls of heart-shaped candies, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and—God bless whoever planned this—lines of Jell-O shots in tiny cups, glowing like neon salvation.
Perfect.
I grab one and down it in a single swallow. I take another; this one burns a little, but it hits every spot. By the third, I’m not even thinking anymore. I just sent it straight to the grave.
A warm buzz unfurls in my chest, loosening the tightness like someone finally unclenched a fist around my ribs. Blowing out a breath, I lick the last bit of Jell-O off my thumb, and then my eyes land on a bowl of heart-shaped lollipops next to a bouquet of red roses.
“Yeah, come here,” I murmur, grabbing two—one for now and one for later. I tear the wrapper off with my teeth, then slip the candy between my lips. The cherry sweetness hits instantly, slow and sugary, giving me something to chomp down on instead of someone’s throat.