Page 6 of Slick & Spooky
The parties we throw are legendary.
Every class of Mu Lambda Nu adds something to the chaos, but for the last five years the crown jewel has been our annual Halloween bash.
Día de los M.Λ.N.
The courtyard becomes a graveyard, forty headstones engraved with alumni names lined like trophies of the dead. Upstairs, a haunted walkthrough winds from room to room, brothers waiting inside to pour liquor straight down your throat.
Fog machines kick up on motion sensors, mist curling around your ankles the second you step through the gates. Strobes crack from the roofline like the house itself is seizing in time with the music.
At the center sits a skeleton DJ booth, guarded by a real coffin stuffed with neon jello shots and an endless supply of Natty Light. Pledges in matching skeleton shorts serve without question, easy to spot and easier to command. Every girl, every brother, no matter how drunk or feral, expects you to jump when they snap.
One corner always devolves intothe pit. It’s a shirtless, grinding mass. No rules, no space, no shame. It’s sweat, skin, and maybe some girl in devil horns blowing another guy behind a hay bale.
You go in knowing you’ll come out soaked in something.
Beer. Glitter. Regret.
Probably all three.
Dead center, a dense knot of partygoers packs the space so tight the walls feel like they’re sweating too. The whole house feels alive, breathing through the walls, swallowing bodies whole.
You don’t move through a party like this. It moves through you.
The sororities treat the night like a national holiday. Circled on calendars. Outfit prepped weeks in advance. Like communion at the altar of debauchery.
“This is what heaven looks like,” Joey screams, ducking as someone tosses a beer can overhead.
I nod but keep scanning. Not casual, though I pretend it is. My eyes skip over glitter wings, sweaty jerseys, masks slipping down flushed faces.
Flash. Dark. Flash. Dark.
Each strobe light slices the room into still frames, and in every one I swear there’s someone watching me.
It should be Knox. It has to be Knox. But the longer I look, the less sure I am.
I came here to be undeniable. To make him look. And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that the looking’s already happening. That somewhere in this crowd, hidden in the rhythm and the shadows, someone has already chosen me.
My heart bangs in time with the music. Every step forward feels like it might drop me straight into Knox’s line of fire, but the first eyes on me aren’t his.
They belong to Tripp Sanders. Pledge Class President. Self-appointed morality police. A title invented by brothers too lazy to babysit and given to the guy most eager to abuse it.
Unfortunately for me, his Halloween makeup isn’t what makes him ugly. The skeleton paint is half gone, streaked with sweat, beer, and desperation. What’s left clings around the scowl carved into his face, like even the paint’s afraid of him.
He steps into my path like a bouncer, arms crossed, blue eyes crawling up my body.
“Wow,” he says flatly. “Didn’t realize pledge attire was optional.”
Behind him, someone laughs.
Not with me. Definitely not with me.
“It’s a creative interpretation,” I shoot back.
Tripp doesn’t smile. “It wasn’t up for interpretation. You were supposed to wear what we all agreed on.”
Heat prickles my cheeks, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of flinching. Joey stays quiet. I can feel his anger humming beside me, one sharp comment away from spilling over, but he holds it. He knows these are my fights, especially when the Finley name’s involved.
This is how it always plays out. People either cling to me to climb higher, or back away like I’m dangerous. Tripp’s the worst kind though. Drunk on fake authority, desperate to prove he matters. Of course he zeroes in on me. I walk into a room and get what he begs for.