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“I should go,” I force out, because I know I’m exhausted and deprived of genuine affection and vulnerable.

“Right.” Although he doesn’t move right away. “Oh, I have something for you.” He reaches into his pocket. “You’re right about proof. We need evidence—hard evidence.” He holds up a circular button identical to the one I’m wearing. My pledge pin, complete with the number forty-seven. “There’s a camera embedded in here.”

A squicky feeling churns in my stomach. Grayson wants to see everything going on during the gauntlet. Including the stuff I’ve been hiding from him. “Seems risky,” I say, not entirely convincing. “If they found out…”

“They won’t.” He reaches for the button on my shirt and unhooks it. Then replaces it with the new one. He must sense my skepticism because he rests his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “We need this, Reagan. We have to get them to stop.”

I nod. I know he’s right; we need hard evidence on the Zeta Sig’s, but even after I leave the closet and make my way across campus, I know that the frat’s won’t be the only reputation ruined.

16

Miller

“Congratulations!” Knox yells from the front of the room. “You’ve made it halfway through the gauntlet! Only four of you have pussied out and quit and we consider that reason to celebrate.” He grins out at the bald, exhausted goats. “It’s time for the Liquor Run.”

Knox is an enigma. A balance between hard partying frat boy and dedicated athlete. The pressure he gets from being a varsity level athlete with Olympic aspirations is intense. I think that’s why he needs to blow off so much steam.

The Liquor Run is Knox’s favorite part of the gauntlet, probably because it combines both of those things. Competition and a party.

“Each one of you goats will team up with a brother who will drive you around to five liquor stores. You’re tasked with purchasing five bottles of liquor in two hours and bringing them to the rendezvous point. Everyone who succeeds will throw down at the most epic party of the year. The rest of you?” He laughs darkly. “Trust me, just fucking succeed.”

“What if we don’t have ID?” someone shouts from the pen. All of the goats are underage—that’s why this is challengingandhilarious.

“Tough shit,” Rat says, stepping next to him. “You better get good at sucking liquor store clerk cock.”

Rat lifts a bullhorn to his mouth and begins shouting out partners for the night. I’ve already arranged it for Reagan to be my partner. Once Knox discovered her working on my homework, he stopped wondering why I had ‘Theo’ in my room so much. It surprised me when I found out what she’d done. I mean, why was she doing my homework? I’m not sure I care that much because I have an ‘A’ in math now.

Rat calls out my name and then forty-seven, and Reagan and I make eye contact across the barn. We haven’t spoken since last night, but I’ve thought about her.A lot. I just about rubbed my dick raw after going to bed last night, thinking about her getting herself off in the horse stall. Every time I think she’ll break, or that I’ll push her past her limit, she rises to the occasion. Reagan Lake is tougher than anyone thinks.

She crosses the room, wearing loose Army green pants and a Wittmore sweatshirt, fussing with the pledge pin near her collar. We walk out to the parking lot and get into my Jeep. I’ve just slid the key into the ignition when she says, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“The Liquor Run?” I ask. “It’s a tradition.”

“No, with me,” she says. “Look at me, Miller. I definitely have no ID and with this haircut I look, at best, like a fourteen-year-old boy.”

I shrug. “You’ll figure something out. Everyone does.”

“Everyone?”

I crank the engine. “Almost everyone, but I haven’t lost yet, and I don’t plan on it tonight.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “You have something special up your sleeve? A fake? You know the clerk?”

“No,” I say, backing out of the parking spot. “This is all on you, kitten, but I have no doubt you’ll pull this off.”

Okay,maybe I overestimated Reagan on this one. She does look younger with her hair shaved. Royer always bought her booze, so she doesn’t have a convincing fake ID. And whatever spitfire attitude that normally gets her though these rituals seems to have faded under the neon beer signs hanging on the liquor store walls.

“I give up,” she says after the third store. “You need to go back and find a new partner.”

Eight other teams have come and gone while we’ve been in this parking lot. I should leave, heading out to the next option, but I haven’t been able to make myself go. Gripping the steering wheel, I stare over her in the passenger seat, shoulder slumped, teeth worrying her bottom lip. She’s right. This is pointless. Except I think about what I would do if she was a normal guy—just a stupid freshman boy learning the ropes of Zeta Sig.

I’d beat his ass raw if he pussied out like this.

I’d drag him in there again. Humiliate him. Emasculate. I’d ride that kid until he was on the edge of a breakdown and then teach him how to be a man.

I sigh heavily and then say, “Get out of the car.”

She looks up, eyes shiny. God. She’s crying. “You’re leaving me here?” Her hands wring together.