Chapter 11 Chloe #2
It’s almost dystopian, the way life just keeps moving forward after it implodes. My father’s in prison. My mother’s in Paris. And I’m here in a sorority house surrounded by glitter and bass and beer foam, pretending this is normal.
I finish the rest of my drink in one go.
The downstairs bathroom’s crowded, laughter and whispers spilling out through the half-open door. I peek in, and immediately wish I hadn’t. There are definitely four people in there. Two on the sink, two against the wall. Limbs. Hands. Kisses that sound too loud.
“Sorry!” I laugh, backing out fast. “Didn’t mean to—uh—interrupt.”
Someone calls after me, “You can join if you want!” and the hallway erupts in laughter.
I shake my head, cheeks burning, and climb the staircase instead.
Upstairs is quieter. The music muffles into a dull throb, like a heartbeat under water.
I glance at the framed photos along the wall—girls in matching costumes, arms slung around each other, fake blood and witch hats everywhere.
Apparently, Delta Phi has a serious Halloween obsession.
Every photo is filled with cobwebs, pumpkins, vintage horror filters, slutty outfits. This is girlhood.
It makes my chest ache. If my father hadn’t ruined everything, maybe I’d have pictures like that with some of my closest girlfriends. Maybe my biggest worry would’ve been what costume to wear to the fall formal, not which parent still answers the phone.
I swallow the thought and head toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. The door’s closed. I wait.
When it finally opens, I step forward, and nearly walk straight into him.
Blond hair. Ice-blue eyes. The bartender from The Crest. I’ve also seen him on the ice and around school… but the most important memory is that of him, cock down some girl’s throat.
Jamie.
My brain scrambles for words. “Oh. Hi.”
He looks at me for a beat, and then his mouth curves. “Chloe, right?”
Why am I so excited over the fact that he knows my name? Oh, I’m definitely drunk.
“Jamie,” I say, my voice weirdly breathless. “Is this our thing now? Bumping into each other in bathrooms?”
His grin widens, that familiar boyish mischief flickering through. “Guess so.” He leans against the doorframe, casual in a way that feels practiced. “For the record, last time wasn’t what it looked like.”
I arch a brow. “Oh, really?”
He lifts a hand in surrender. “Swear. I was conducting a… medical checkup.”
I laugh. “You’re horrible at lying.”
“I am,” he admits easily, hands up.
Something about him—his ease, his humor—cuts through the static in my head. I shouldn’t feel lighter, not after the day I’ve had, but I do. The hallway light catches in his hair, and for a second the noise from downstairs fades.
I smile. “Good to know, Doctor Jamie.”
He chuckles, a low, easy sound. “You sticking around for the party?”
“Maybe,” I say. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Well,” he says, eyes gleaming, “try not to walk into any more bathrooms.”
I’m almost tempted to tell him that I just did but I have to remind myself that he’s a stranger. That the last time a stranger was nice to me, well, it was his teammate, Miles, and see how that turned out.
“I’ll do my best,” I say instead.
“See you around, peeping tom.”
And before I can even think of a comeback, he’s gone—down the stairs, disappearing into the music and light.
I stand there for a moment, my reflection flickering in the half-open bathroom mirror. Lip gloss smudged, hair curling from the humidity, cheeks flushed from tequila and confusion.
This is college, I think. The parties. The boys. The ache of almosts and maybes.
Forget Miles, I think Jamie is cute too. And he is twice as charming anyway. That’s all I can think about as I go about my business.
The bathroom mirror hums with the soft, golden light overhead. It makes everything look too warm, too tender. My reflection is a little flushed, the pulse in my neck still jumpy from laughing with Jamie.
I finish washing my hands, watching the water swirl pink from the cheap strawberry soap, and then run wet fingers through my hair.
It looks lighter under this light, more honey than gold, strands catching the shimmer.
I fluff it out, push it behind my ears, trying to look less like someone whose stomach has been twisting all day waiting for someone who barely looked at her.
The music downstairs bleeds through the walls—bass-heavy, throbbing. I grab a paper towel, dab my cheeks, check my lip gloss, and then turn toward the door. The house smells like perfume and cheap beer, and under that, something sharp—adrenaline, excitement. The kind of air that crackles.
As I walk down the stairs, voices start to sharpen into words, laughter spiking like fireworks. The crowd has thickened since I came up—more people, more noise, more glitter. And then my heart plummets straight into my shoes.
Because he’s here.
Miles Thatcher. Hat pulled low, hoodie on, the dark gray fabric stretching over his shoulders like sin itself.
His knuckles are wrapped, faint bruising still visible on one.
There’s a half-healed cut on his lip, and somehow, it makes him even worse for me.
And sitting on his lap, legs draped over his thighs like she’s claimed him, is the freckled girl.
She’s laughing at something he’s said, her hand tracing circles on his chest through the hoodie, and he doesn’t stop her.
Doesn’t even flinch. He takes a slow sip of her beer instead, his eyes darting up straight to me.
I stop on the last step, my breath catching. For one small second, I hope he’ll say something. That maybe that look will mean something. But it’s gone before I can process it. He just looks away. Just like that. No acknowledgment. No warmth. Just… nothing.
A dagger to the chest. A slow, quiet kind of pain.
“Chloe!” Bella’s voice pierces through the haze, too bright, too close. She’s suddenly next to me, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed from too much drinking. She tugs my arm, nearly making me spill the cup I didn’t even realize I was holding. “Where were you?”
“Bathroom,” I say, blinking, trying to focus on her instead of the way Miles’s hand is resting on Leslie’s thigh. “What’s going on?”
Bella grins, teeth gleaming. “Tradition time, baby! It’s pledge night!”
“Tradition?” I echo, trying to sound casual, but my voice cracks at the end. She’s swaying on her heels, her perfume a dizzying mix of citrus and something sharp, like vodka.
Her co-captain—Marie, I think—claps her hands, a whistle piercing through the noise.
“You heard her! Time for the pledges to prove they’ve got spirit!
” The crowd roars, beer cans shaking in the air.
Someone cranks up the music— “Hot in Here” of all songs—and Bella giggles so hard she nearly drops her cup.
My stomach drops. Oh no.
“What kind of… spirit?” I ask, even though I already feel the dread crawling up my throat.
Bella’s smile turns wicked. “Streaking,” she says like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Ladies, take your bra and panties off! Run across the quad!” Marie shouts, raising her beer in salute. “Delta Phi’s legacy, baby!”
The room erupts in cheers. Someone starts chanting “Pledge run! Pledge run!” and before I can process any of it, half the girls are squealing, jumping, unzipping jeans and tossing shirts into the air.
I catch sight of sparkly bras, pink lace, someone’s thong hanging from a lamp, and I want the ground to swallow me whole.
I glance back toward the couch—bad idea.
The girl’s laughing into Miles’s neck, and he’s smirking, eyes half-lidded, like none of this chaos touches him.
When he cups her neck and then proceeds to kiss her, my stomach twists.
I look away so fast I almost spill my drink. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.
I can feel the burn behind my eyes which has nothing to do with the tequila in my bloodstream.
Bella’s arm snakes around my shoulder, pulling me closer. “Don’t chicken out now, Ashford. You said you wanted the full experience!” Her voice is slurred, sweet, like honey hiding the sting. She smells like sugar and mischief.
Behind her, Jamie’s leaning against the wall, beer bottle dangling between two fingers. His blond hair catches the light, and when he sees me, he lifts his drink in a small salute, grin crooked. I manage a weak smile back. He’s the only familiar face here. The only one who feels remotely safe.
I try to focus on him instead of the couple behind me. But it’s useless. I can still feel Miles’s presence like static, a shadow I can’t shake.
Bella claps her hands again, stumbling slightly. “Alright, pledges!” she sings. “Say your names and strip!”
The music dips, and laughter ripples through the crowd. A few girls shout their names, voices shrill with excitement. Someone whistles. The freckled girl stands up from Miles’s lap, straightening her skirt and tugging at her shirt hem like she’s prepping for a runway. My throat tightens.
“Leslie Bennett!” she yells, spinning as the crowd cheers. Her shirt’s already halfway up, revealing a red bra that could blind someone. She smiles at Miles before peeling it the rest of the way off.
I stare down at my hands, my nails digging into the cup. This is insane. Completely insane. I’m not doing this. No fucking way.
Marie turns toward me, smirking. “What about you, sweetheart? You gonna run or just stand there?”
My mouth opens, closes. “I—”
But then I feel it. That familiar burn of being watched. I don’t even have to look to know where it’s coming from. I can feel his gaze like a physical touch—Miles, silent, unreadable, eyes pinned on me.
I finally force myself to glance over my shoulder.
He’s still slouched on the couch, hood up, but his face is shadowed.
The cut on his lip glints faintly under the light when he takes another sip of beer.
Leslie’s perched on the armrest now, laughing with someone else, but his attention’s not on her. It’s on me.
For a second, the noise fades. The laughter, the music, the chanting—it all dissolves into a muffled hum. All I can hear is my heartbeat, loud and furious in my ears.
Then Bella’s voice cuts through it. “Come on, Chloe! You can’t back out now!”
I blink, the moment breaking like glass. Everyone’s looking at me. Waiting. My face burns. My fingers twitch around the hem of my T-shirt.
This is what I came for, right? To be normal. To belong. To stop thinking. To stop replaying the night I got kidnapped. To forget about losing my father to a prison sentence, my mom who abandoned me, and all the stares from my supposed friends in high school This is my chance.
Maybe if I do this—this ridiculous, humiliating thing—it’ll all stop hurting for a little while.
“Chloe Ashford!” I shout before I can second-guess it, the words trembling but loud enough to earn a cheer.
Bella whoops, nearly spilling her beer as she claps. “That’s my girl!”
The other pledges are laughing, unzipping, pulling off layers, the music pounding through the floorboards. I can’t stop glancing over my shoulder, though. Miles hasn’t moved. He just stares, that same unreadable expression on his face, something dark flickering behind his eyes.
He shifts, rolling his neck, and when he adjusts his hoodie, I catch the faintest smirk. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Like he’s daring me.
It pisses me off more than it should.
So I lift my chin, grip the hem of my shirt, and tug it over my head. The air bites at my skin, cool against the heat rising under it. Cheers erupt. Someone hands me another shot. I down it, feeling it burn all the way down, and let out a laugh that doesn’t sound like me at all.
If he wants to watch, let him.