The Shameless Hour (The Ivy Years #4)

Ugh. She was right, of course. The college didn’t want trouble. And I didn’t want that on my conscience. It’s just that I also didn’t want to be targeted for telling the truth.

Coward much? “Okay. Fine. I get it. I’ll tell you.”

Her eyes lifted. “Can we do this now? I’ll need to record our interview.”

Oh good God. What had I just agreed to do?

The assistant was called back in to set up a video camera. I just sat there in my chair, sweating. The assistant sat down too, a notepad in her lap.

They both stared at me. “Okay, Bella. Please tell us about your recent interactions with members of the Beta Rho fraternity.”

After a big gulp of my water, I tried to think where to start. “Well, in September I went to their Casino Night party…” Jesus Christ. I was going to have to tell a dean, her assistant and a video camera that I’d had sex with Whittaker.

So I did.

“It was consensual?” Dean Waite asked.

“Absolutely — no question,” I admitted. Shoot me already. Nobody at Harkness would ever have sex again if they knew they could end up telling Whomping Wilma about it later.

“What happened afterwards?” the dean prodded.

Marching onward through my tale of woe, I walked them through my medical diagnosis, eventually arriving at the ugly night in question.

I told my audience that Whittaker had sat me down in the breakfast nook.

I told them that we’d done shots of tequila.

And while my face burned bright red, I told them that Whittaker had denied giving me an STI. And in the next breath, he’d asked Dash to mix up “the special.”

The fucking special. It had leveled me like a tranquilizer dart. I’d spent six weeks trying not to think about that night, but the dean’s clarifying questions kept pinning me back inside that awful moment. “How did the drink appear?” Cloudy. “What was in it?” Orange juice, and an umbrella, but only in mine.

Jesus God, I was such an idiot. How could I have missed that big red flag? Why did I think guys who bragged about drinking beer out of their jock straps would suddenly decorate a lady’s drink, just to be nice?

The whole situation was mortifying. And it was also really fucking scary. I’d done a fine job of blocking all this out until today. But now as I described to the dean how tired I’d gotten immediately after drinking it… Saying it out loud brought me right back to the moment.

In spite of the water I’d been gulping, my throat went dry. “The next thing I remember is waking up on the wood floor.” The sensations clobbered me all over again. Freezing. Stiff. Confused. My missing sweater. Awful words written all over my skin.

Weirdly, there were tears dripping down my face, and I’d barely even noticed them. It was all too vivid. I was gripping the armrests of the wingback chair, terrified at the idea that I’d been so defenseless in that house.

They’d put me on the floor, and covered my body with taunts while I was unconscious.

Then they’d left me there, like garbage.

“Bella?”

I looked up to see the assistant offering me a box of tissues.

“Th…thanks,” I stammered, grabbing it.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” she said, her voice soft.

“Yeah. It, um…” I was reaching the end of my ability to speak. I felt almost as wiped out as I had that morning, when my limbs wouldn’t do as I’d asked.

“You’re almost through it,” the dean said, her voice calm. “Tell us what happened when you left. How did you feel when you left? Physically, I mean.”

Now that I was allowed to leave the frat house behind, I started to feel a little better. “I… Weird, I guess. Heavy. Clumsy. I fell down on the sidewalk.”

She scribbled furiously on her notepad. “Did anyone witness this?”

Hoo boy. “Yes. One person walked me home.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Who?”

A few minutes later, I was drinking another glass of ice water while the dean’s assistant tracked down one Rafael Santiago. And ten minutes after that, I heard my boyfriend’s voice in the lobby. “What is this about?”

“Can we please be done now?” I asked the dean.

“Yes — for now. But I may need you again for follow-up questions.”

“Any time,” I offered. I would have promised her my firstborn to get out of that room.

In the outer office, Rafe stood by a window, drumming a pencil against his leg. I’d never been so happy to see anyone in my life.