Chapter 33 Bennett
Bennett
I don my navy Tom Ford tux—the same one I got married in.
Tex flew home earlier today, and that’s for the best because he definitely wouldn’t go for my plan. Julian, however, is more willing to test fate.
When I park around the corner, I pull the rest of Tex’s bottle of Macallan out from under my seat. I throw back about two fingers and hand it to Julian for him to take a sip before I have one more.
“We’ll be in and out,” I tell him. “The ring is in Tate’s room. I know it.”
Julian pops the top back into the bottle of scotch and rolls it under his seat. “Here’s to not getting our asses beat.”
“All I need you to do is roam around without drawing any attention and just let me know if Tate heads upstairs. I’ll text you when I have the ring and we’ll meet back here.”
“Let’s Ocean’s Eleven these motherfuckers,” Julian says.
It’s a waste of time to bother with the line at the front door, and anyone who knows us probably won’t let us inside anyway, so we sneak in through the back gate and walk through a haze of marijuana smoke to the back door.
Some girl calls my name, but I don’t bother to see who it is. It’s not her and that’s all that matters.
Inside, I know where to go.
“Good luck,” my cousin says as we split up just outside the kitchen.
I work through the crush of bodies to get to the front of the house.
Most guys are dressed in suits and the girls are in the kinds of dresses and gowns that are held in place with copious amounts of double-stick tape.
There are costume boas and stray feathers on every surface, and there are even girls walking around dressed as Playboy Bunnies with trays of shots and edibles.
In front of the staircase is a red velvet rope and a shit-faced freshman who is supposed to be keeping people off the second floor.
I look around for options. Behind me are two brunettes dressed like showgirls with giant feather headbands.
“Hey,” I yell over the music, and hike my thumb over my shoulder. “What if I gave you both a hundred bucks each to distract that sad excuse for a bouncer over there?”
The short one peers past me to get a look. “Make it three hundred total,” she says, and her taller companion practically spits her drink out at the brazen counteroffer.
“Done.” I open my wallet and take out four crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. “Here’s an extra hundred to make him disappear for the next thirty minutes.”
“You’re on!” says the short one as she drags her friend with her and stuffs the money down the front of her sparkly minidress.
It takes a record forty-five seconds of pawing at the guy’s chest, and it is abundantly clear he never stood a chance.
As they drag him off into the living room, the tall one glances back and blows me a kiss.
I duck under the rope and run upstairs as discreetly as possible. My phone vibrates with a notification, and once I’m out of view in the hallway leading to Tate’s room, I check my messages.
JULIAN
found Tate playing cards
he is not happy I’m here but I just threw down enough money to cover a semester’s worth of tuition so he would shut up
these guys are pumped to win all my money
And they prob will
Is high stakes Texas Hold’em different than regular stakes Texas Hold’em
What about going unnoticed did Julian not understand? It was honestly foolish of me to expect him to even do that.
BENNETT
the only advice I have for you is to know when to hold ’em and know when to fold ’em
JULIAN
I didn’t know you were funny
I pocket my phone and let myself into Tate’s room, flipping on the lights.
The last time I was in here, Clover was drunk and it was dark except for a small desk lamp.
But with the overhead lights on, I find Tate’s room to be much cleaner than any college guy’s room typically would be.
The place is likely maintained by a housekeeping service.
The only thing breaking up the dark hardwood floors and navy blue walls is the white trim and wainscoting. His bed is made, and the walls are ornamented with lacrosse team photos and trophies. There are a few pictures from high school of him at parties with other guys—big fish in little ponds.
Of course, it would have been too fucking easy for the ring to just be sitting there on his desk under a spotlight.
I start with the two nightstands on either side of his bed. The first side is full of random junk and a few unmarked pill containers.
It is impossible to be in this room and not think of her. The weight of her in my lap and how I had just wanted to keep her safe.
The other nightstand is full of condoms and lube and an old, cracked cell phone.
After rifling through the dressers, desk drawers, and his closet, I kneel next to the bed and look underneath.
There’s loose lacrosse equipment, and a deflated basketball that I remember the guys pelting one another with last year in the backyard when everyone was high and bored.
The last thing is a Nike shoebox in the exact middle of the space under the bed, and I think that’s gotta be it.
After pulling it out, I sit down on the edge of the bed.
I flip back the lid to find the box is full of nothing but trophies.
Thongs, a few bras, some Polaroid photos from a camera that seemed to get passed around last year.
Mostly girls with glassy eyes laid out in the basement in various states of undress.
Some are aware—though barely—and others are just passed out.
It’s fucking disgusting. My stomach turns at each new discovery, and eventually I just shake out the whole damn box, which is pointless—
Until something knocks against the cardboard and the ring … Clover’s ring falls out into my waiting palm.
The relief I feel is nothing compared to what it will be if I’m able to win her back, but it’s still so fucking sweet.
I shoot off a quick text to Julian and his response comes a moment later.
BENNETT
Got it.
JULIAN
Good, because I can’t lose any more money tonight.
BENNETT
meet you at the car. Be careful.
I give the room one last look, wondering if I should bother piecing back together the mess I’d made. But then I shake my head as my focus settles on his little spread of trophies. No, let him fucking see that I know what a piece of shit he is. Anger, sudden and violent, practically strangles me.
A lacrosse stick is poking out from under the bed and I make a split-second decision to take it with me.
I take the stairs two at a time with the ring tucked into the breast pocket above my heart. The drunk first-year has reclaimed his station at the foot of the stairs.
“What the—” he yells after me as I hop over the velvet rope and make a beeline to the basement door. I have one last piece of unfinished business.
The night is still young, so the basement is relatively quiet except for two couples sequestered in opposite corners.
Neither of them even looks up as I make my way down the stairs.
At least they don’t until the moment I swing the lacrosse stick into the scoreboard, shattering a handful of incandescent lights.
I go for the slate next, but the plastic head of the stick cracks, which is fine, because mounted to the wall right beside the scoreboard is a metal baseball bat with the Wexley logo. Likely from the seventies.
A girl screams somewhere behind me, and I almost apologize for startling her, but hope that my little display encourages her to abandon whatever poor decision she is about to make.
It takes a few solid hits, but once the slate cracks, it begins to fly off in brittle chips.
Footsteps thunder up the steps to the main floor, and I know my time is running out.
But god, this feels fucking great. With every thwack of the bat, the former versions of myself slip further away.
The guy who had to catfish his way into Clover’s heart because he was too chickenshit to do it for himself.
The guy who slept his way through freshman year just to feel something.
The guy who is starved for affection. The one who didn’t deserve Clover and is only as good as what he can offer her.
Those versions fall apart like pieces of slate until all that’s left standing is a slightly drunk guy who is wildly in love and would do anything to keep the girl.
Whether that means divorcing her so we can start from scratch or picking up right where we left off and doing everything in my power to make this work.
Couples therapy. Cheesy date nights. Matching shirts like Sandra and Greta.
Whatever it takes. If I have to live in that deteriorating dorm building for the rest of my life just so I can keep Clover, I will.
The bat crashes through Tate’s name and then his body count when I hear footsteps trampling back downstairs.
“What the fuck?” Tate shouts.
I spin around on my heel and prop the bat on my shoulder. I am ready for a fight.
The only problem is that so are the five other guys standing opposite me.
I’ve been in a handful of brief tussles and come out the winner, but these odds feel like a death wish. And yet I am willing to pay the toll for the opportunity to destroy the legendary scoreboard.
Swinging my bat down and using it as a cane as I strut over to Tate, I wonder if I’ll lose any teeth tonight.
“Allow me to get things started,” I tell him as I draw my fist back and let it smack into his jaw. The sound of skin hitting skin is barbaric and juvenile but only makes me hungry for more.
The first few hits I land are solid, and I even manage to brandish the bat and connect the metal with someone’s gut before it’s yanked away and thrown out of play.
My mouth is warm and metallic and full of blood. Someone gets me in the ear, and I feel like I’m underwater. I stomp on a few feet and let my fists swing recklessly. It’s not like I’m likely to hit someone on my side. After all, it’s me versus everyone.
I’m laughably proud of myself for staying on my feet as long as I do, but once my vision begins to blur and my knees hit the ground, I know I’m fucked.
I’m on my back and trying to curl in on myself as the punches and kicks continue to land, when things start to go dark.
The last thing I remember is bright lights turning on and a familiar voice screaming my name followed by a series of threats and curses.