The Shameless Hour (The Ivy Years #4)

It was hard to say whether he was even listening to me anymore. “Do your shot, Bella.”

Right. With nervous fingers, I tossed it back. The wedge of lime had a sharp, sour flavor that seemed to go perfectly with the sharp, sour day I was having.

“Dash!” Whittaker called again. The guy came skidding into the little room like a well-trained dog. “Can you make us tonight’s special?”

The guy hesitated for a second, and I decided that he was being tested in some way. There was probably a stupid frat rule about it — forget the drink special, and do two hundred naked push-ups in the middle of Fresh Court. Or something.

“Sure,” Dash said after a beat. “I’ll be right back.”

“I didn’t give it to you,” Whittaker said when we were alone again. “It wasn’t me.”

“Okayyy…” I was officially at the end of my script. What was the appropriate response to outright denial? Because if he didn’t give it to me, that meant that the shame could only flow in one direction. I’d brought this ugliness to his doorstep. “The, uh, doctor said that most people never see symptoms.”

“Whatever,” he muttered.

Welp, (awkward) mission accomplished. Now I really wanted to get the hell out of there, never to return. I was about to thank him for the drink and make my excuses when Whittaker surprised me by changing the topic to a less loaded one. “How does the hockey team look this year?”

“Pretty good,” I said numbly. “We’ll miss Hartley a lot, but there’s a lot of other talent on the lines.”

“Who’s the captain? Don’t tell me it’s that gay dude.”

My blood pressure kicked up another notch. I wasn’t the kind of girl to let that bit of assholery go unchallenged. But this really wasn’t the day to get into an argument with Whittaker over his homophobia. “Trevi is captain,” I said quietly. “He’s a smart guy.”

Dash strode into the room again. He set two drinks on the table, and I looked down to try to identify the drink special. Hmm. It was a rocks drink with a blush color.

One had an umbrella in it. “Aw, mine is accessorized,” I said, smiling up at Dash.

He gave an uncomfortable shrug and left the room. Dash was never going to win awards for his conversational skills, that was for sure. I picked up my drink and had a taste. “It’s… a madras?” I asked.

Whittaker clinked his glass into mine. “Smart girl,” he said, taking a gulp. “Drink up.”

I wasn’t really in the mood to get drunk, but it seemed rude not to sit a minute longer. I still couldn’t tell what Whittaker was thinking. Either he wasn’t that worried about what I’d told him, or else he put up a pretty good front. I took a gulp.

“What classes are you taking?” he asked me a minute later, sipping his own drink.

“Um… I’m in that Urban Studies lecture,” I said. “And I’ve got two psych courses…” My head felt a little swimmy now. I hadn’t eaten very well since my awful doctor’s appointment. Usually, I wasn’t such a lightweight.

Across the table, Whittaker asked me another question, but I couldn’t quite catch it. “What?” I asked. The glass in my hand felt too heavy, actually. I set it on the table roughly.

The last thing I registered was Whittaker’s beady stare.

Eleven

Rafe

It was only seven-thirty on a Sunday morning and barely daybreak. I’d already run more than five miles, but a new blister on my heel was giving me trouble. My running shoes needed to be replaced.

That would set me back another hundred dollars. Which I did not have.

I stopped running when I reached the outskirts of campus, slowing to a walk to cool myself down. I loved being alone so early in the morning, when the sun made slanting lines against the limestone facades. Thanks to my fancy new iPod and an overpriced arm band, bachata tunes pulsed in my ears. I walked slowly down the sleepy fraternity row. It was still cold enough outside that my breath made visible puffs in the morning air.

At that hour, I fully expected to be alone. It surprised me to hear a door slam on one of the wooden porches. My eyes traced the row of houses, but it was not a fraternity member who stumbled into view. A girl, her head bent down, made an awkward descent from the last porch in the row. As I watched, she grabbed the railing to steady herself. In spite of the chill, she had on skimpy clothing. And I couldn’t help notice that her arms and legs were strangely tattooed.

The drooping girl seemed to gather herself with a deep breath, and then shove off into the morning. But her feet weren’t willing to play along. She stumbled after a few steps, and then fell awkwardly to the sidewalk.