Page 13 of Slick & Spooky

I make it to the middle of the crowd when Joey’s voice cuts through the music like a whip crack.

“Well, that was dramatic.”

I blink, caught mid-brood, and yell back to him. “It was calculated.”

“Sure, Tyler Finley. Everything you do is calculated. Like picking gym shorts for the sex appeal and the mobility.”

I roll my eyes, grinning despite myself. “You gotta leave them wanting.”

“Guess so since that’s what he did to you.”

I flip him off and push toward the house, and he follows until we’re through the doors and into the front room.

Florida’s still pretending it’s summer, and I’m slick with sweat, skin humming from heat and nerves. The blast of air conditioning hits like salvation, cool enough to melt some of the tension out of my shoulders.

Beside me, Joey’s attention snags instantly on two girls in lingerie and cat ears. They wave. He smirks.

“There’s no way in hell,” I tell him.

He opens his mouth probably to defend his odds with the girls or tell me to chill, but we round the corner from the foyer into the front room and stop short.

Tripp’s sprawled across the biggest couch like it’s a throne, one leg dangling over the arm, a red Solo cup balanced carelessly on his knee. His skeleton paint’s even more of a mess now,smeared into something that makes him look half-dead, half-deranged.

A handful of our pledge brothers crowd around him, laughing at whatever joke he cracked. But the second they see us, the sound dies. The music from outside still pounds, but in here, it feels muffled, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

Tripp tilts his chin up, sneer already carved into place. “Look who finally decided to slum it with the rest of us.”

The others snicker, but no one dares add more. Tripp wants the stage to himself.

“Must be nice, huh?” His voice rises, all mock cheer. “Waltzing in late, dressed like a hooker, knowing your daddy’s checkbook will cover the consequences.”

Tripp pushes himself up, swaggering toward me with the stumble of someone too drunk to feel it. The sour reek of beer hits first, then the bloodshot eyes, glazed and feral enough to make my chest cinch tight. He stops close, heat rolling off him, tongue flicking against a canine like he’s savoring the moment before he sinks his teeth in.

“Tell me, Finley… does the money still hit the same when they find out you like dick?”

My body goes rigid. Spine locked, shoulders squared, jaw clenched until my teeth scream. The air thickens as every eye in the room drags across my skin. For half a second I want to vanish and let my name shield me the way it always has.

But I can’t because disappearing means he’s right.

So I root myself, chin tilted high, throat raw with everything I refuse to say.

Silence can cut deeper than words, so I let it.

Let them watch. Let them wait for me to crumble.

Tripp chuckles. “Maybe Daddy can buy you a backbone to match the attitude. Or do you bend over every time someone with real power gets in your face?”

Tripp never sees him coming.

One second he’s smirking, puffed up with his own voice, and the next he’s airborne.

Knox slams him against the wall so hard the crack reverberates through the room.

Skeleton paint streaks across the drywall. Tripp flails, fingers scrabbling uselessly at Knox’s chest, but Knox’s hold doesn’t budge. The hockey mask is gone, abandoned somewhere in the chaos, and Tripp is forced to stare into those dark, merciless eyes.

“Is there a problem, Sanders?” Knox’s voice is ice.

Tripp wheezes, nothing but a rasp. Knox’s forearm grinds harder into his throat, lifting him as his toes scrape uselessly at the floor.