The Shameless Hour (The Ivy Years #4)

Graham’s eyes squeezed shut, probably because he knew I was right. His arms tightened around me once again. “I can’t make you turn him in. But I really need to know one thing. Was the ink the worst thing that happened to you that night?”

“No!” I spat, and his whole body stiffened. “The fucking picture was the worst thing that happened. Duh.”

He let out a breath, and I felt just steeped in misery and drama. As a rule, I didn’t do drama. I didn’t manufacture it or traffic in it. But now it was all around me.

What I didn’t tell Graham — or Rafe — was that I knew those assholes had put something more than alcohol in my drink. But that’s not what Graham had been asking. He’d wanted to know if I’d been assaulted, just like Rafe had tried to ask, too. In their minds, it was the worst thing that could’ve happened to me. And maybe they were right. It’s not like I had any experience with that.

But I’d had enough experience with other kinds of assholery to know public humiliation was no trip to Hollywood, either. I wasn’t about to make my own life worse by making a complaint against the fraternity, because there was no way I’d prevail. The Beta Rho national chapter probably wrote their own slut-shaming tactical handbook.

“A lot of guys would want to help you.” Rikker gave my lower back a supportive rub.

I disentangled myself from the two of them. “I know.” I cleared my throat. “Thanks.”

“The hockey team knows you always have our backs. So we’re going to have yours.”

Now that was naive. Because it didn’t matter how many clean jerseys I’d handed out before practice, or how quickly I could organize fifteen hotel room reservations. If I walked into that locker room right now, those guys were still going to wonder: What did she catch? I wonder who gave it to her?

I was tainted. And nobody was ever going to let me forget it.

“I’ll be fine,” I fibbed, rubbing the drying tears off my face. “Seriously. And I have a whole lot of homework tonight.”

Graham and Rikker exchanged a loaded glance. “Will I see you at practice tomorrow night?” Rikker asked.

“Sure,” I lied.

Graham kissed me on the eyebrow. “Will you come to Capri’s Pizza tomorrow night?”

Fat chance. “Maybe.”

“All right.” Rikker stood up. “Call us if you need us.”

“I will,” I promised, just to shut them up. What I needed was for everyone to stop talking about it.

They left, and my room was silent again.

Before my life went to hell, I used to sleep like a baby. Now? Not so much.

At four in the morning, I found myself tangled up in the sheets, trying to find a way out of my misery. Sometimes my mind would drift, and I’d end up thinking about normal things — the next Rangers game, or a psych essay that I’d read. But then a glimpse of the faded ink on my arm, or the memory of picking up that drink that I’d been served at the Beta Rho house… Shudder.

I lay there, working it through my mind, like a logical puzzle that might be solved if I could only find a way. But short of time travel, there was no solution at all.

If I’d only said no to the drink.

If I’d only told Whittaker over the phone…

A girl could go crazy this way. And whenever my brain veered any further down this path, I had to force myself to turn back toward the light. The memory of waking up on the floor of Beta Rho that morning was not a place in my mind I could visit without becoming fearful. So I tucked that away to think about sometime later.

Much later.

After tossing and turning for hours, I finally fell asleep again when the first light was in the sky.

Whatevs. I wasn’t going to class, anyway.

Unfortunately, it’s not easy to hide from the world when you have nosy neighbors.

Lianne walked into the bathroom while I was brushing my teeth around ten in the morning. “Don’t you have class?” she asked.

I did, as a matter of fact. The seminar was an upper-level psych class with only a dozen or so people in it. But I would have had to cross the entire campus to get there, and I just didn’t feel up to it.

“Did you eat breakfast?” Lianne tried, even though I’d never answered her first question.

“Who eats breakfast?” I countered.

“Did you get coffee?”

Seriously? “What’s it to you?”

“Want to hit the coffee shop with me?”

I couldn’t help but sneak a look at her in the mirror. Since when did Lianne make friendly overtures? Rafe probably put her up to it. “I’m good,” I said. “But thanks.”