Chapter 1: Feel The Rush
By the time Will Mercer reached the frat house, his shirt had already begun to stick to his back.
He decided to blame the heat instead of his nerves.
It was the first hot week of spring, and it arrived without warning. The concrete pathways shimmered and baked in the California sun. Every window was open, and music thumped out of the dorm rooms.
Guys everywhere had started dressing for summer already, and showing skin was in. Skimpy running shorts rode high. Faded muscle tanks revealed bronzed shoulders and chiseled biceps.
Will admired a group of hunky upperclassmen tossing around a frisbee on the main quad, their arms high above their heads. One of them was Paul, a handsome, dark-haired senior from his history seminar. Will was too shy to wave, but his gaze drifted lower along Paul's body as he turned, down to the slitted hem of his shorts...
Thick hairy thighs and a sculpted muscle ass.
Fuck.
Will blinked away, feeling inadequate. He'd even changed his outfit twice before leaving his dorm, eventually landing on a pale blue button-down that matched his eyes. It seemed safe enough for today's big event, though now he regretted the sleeves.
Will continued on, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, annoyed that his armpits were soaked.
Within minutes, he was at the edge of campus on Frat Row -- the last street on the hill before the terrain plunged toward the glittering Pacific.
From the outside, the frat houses were stately. Big porches, old columns, and circular drives. Banners hung from second-floor windows. But the debris of a debaucherous night dotted the scene too. Will spotted a condom wrapper hidden in the grass. Several crushed beer cans glinted in the gutter.
And there it was. Halfway up the street, perched on a low rise: The Phi Delta Mu frat house.
Three stories of red brick, cradled by a deep porch and adorned with navy shutters. The front lawn was packed. Rock music blasted from outdoor speakers. There were guys everywhere, yelling to their friends, slapping shoulders. Many were shirtless, each with a large green letter painted on his torso.
Each frat house at Westmore College had its own story, its own cultivated mythology. But Phi Delta Mu had the largest crowd today. And there was only one reason.
Freshmen were rushing to join the early class.
To become one of the “Baby Bros,” as everyone called them.
Every spring, only Phi Delta Mu allowed freshmen boys to rush, and only three were chosen to join. Everyone else had to wait until junior year.
If you got in early, you didn’t spend sophomore year scrambling to get into parties. You had a place to go. Brothers who knew your name. There were lavish trips and mentors and internships with alumni who relived what it was like to feel young and immortal.
And there was a chance at a free room in the house. That mattered more than anything.
Everyone knew the sophomore housing lottery screwed people over, and Will's parents were already struggling to cover tuition alone.
Will had thought about it long and hard. He was decent in school but no brainiac, and he spent most of his nights in his dorm, too shy and cash-strapped to go out. So the chance to make friends, get a free room, and land a golden internship?
He couldn’t pass it up, no matter how remote his chances.
Crunching across the house's front lawn, Will caught a whiff of wet grass and beer. He weaved through a crowd of tall, sweaty upperclassmen who held red cups and ignored him. Finally, he climbed the front steps, pulling awkwardly on his sleeves. Near the check-in table on the porch, a cluster of freshmen had already gathered, trying to look casual. An older student in a green, frat-branded tank looked up at Will from the table.
“Name?”
“Will Mercer.”
The guy dragged his finger down the list. “Mercer. Gotcha. ID?”
Will handed over his student ID.
“OK, initial here. Sign the waiver, keep your schedule. Don't lose the wristband. No replacements, no exceptions, any questions?”
He said all of this without taking a breath.
“Uh, okay,” Will said.
The guy slid a clipboard toward him. At the top were minuscule, bold-faced words: "Phi Delta Mu: Freshman Rush Open House Weekend: Mandatory Participation Acknowledgment, Waiver and Full Release."
Will stared at the lengthy title and flipped through several pages of fine print. A guy next to him shifted impatiently.
“What are we doin', signing our lives away?” the guy muttered to himself.
Will chuckled, then skipped ahead to the final page and began scribbling.
His name. His hometown.
His major? "Economics, probably," he wrote. He bit his lip and crossed out "probably," then crossed out "Economics" too, and wrote in, "Undeclared."
Age: 18 or older? Yes.
Emergency contact? He wrote his mother's number carefully. Then he imagined her receiving a call from a frat house and scratched it out to write his father’s instead.
Around him, the porch surged with bodies. Someone shouted, “Freshmen! Inside in ten!”
Will signed the bottom hurriedly. He took the schedule and handed the clipboard back to the older student, who cuffed him with a wristband.
Then he walked through the open front door.
Inside, the house was cooler, and it smelled like sweat and vanilla. The entry hall was crowded with assorted freshmen and older frat members in matching T-shirts. The sound was deafening. There were dark wood floors, and running up the wall were framed photographs of suited men. The ceiling rose higher than Will expected, and a polished staircase wrapped around the room.
Will looked for a place where he could stand without seeming awkward.
He began reading the schedule to avoid looking at anyone. He took two steps sideways toward the wall. Then he hit something solid.
It was a person.
“Oh! Sorry...” Will said, already stepping back.
A strong hand squeezed Will's shoulder to steady him.
"No sweat."
The voice was low and mild, with a roughness at the edges, and Will smelled cedarwood and sunscreen.
Will looked up.
The man was tall, broad through the shoulders, and tanned bronze in a way that looked permanent. Sandy blond hair brushed the nape of his neck. His trimmed beard was sun-bleached and his eyes shone golden-brown amid faint wrinkles.
For a moment, Will couldn't place the man, but he looked out of place. He looked about forty. Too old to be a student, that was clear. But he also didn't look like an administrator or a parent.
He wore a soft white henley, three buttons undone over the golden fur on his chest. He looked like a modern cowboy, or a surfer ripped from the pages of a 1970s magazine.
He was gorgeous.
Something about him made Will think of a lion.
“You OK?” the man asked.
“Yes. Yeah,” Will said breathlessly. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking.”
“Well, I didn't expect it was on purpose.”
The man smiled, and Will felt his stomach drop.
“I’m Duncan,” the man said, nodding once. “House dad.”
Will blinked.
“House dad?”
“That’s the official unofficial title.”
“Oh, uh,” Will said. “Sorry. I didn’t know there was a...”
“A dad?”
“Yeah.”
“There is. I help around the house. Mentor the guys... Just no bedtime stories.”
Will laughed.
"So you all right?" Duncan said. "Know where you're going?"
"I-- I think so."
Duncan stifled a chuckle. "Know what you're getting into?"
Before Will could answer, a voice blared from the living room. “Yo Duncan, you seen the extension cord?”
Duncan looked past Will. “Under the piano unless Ethan already stole it.”
“Ethan stole it.”
“Then check the porch.”
The student vanished again.
Duncan turned back to Will. “Well, good luck, Will Mercer.”
Will froze slightly. “You... know my name?”
Duncan grinned and tapped twice on the sheet of paper in Will’s hand. “It's right here, dude.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Try to enjoy yourself.”
It sounded like advice, but there was something in it that made Will feel like he was being warned.
Duncan moved along, and several upperclassmen parted the way for him.
Will watched him go, then remembered where he was and allowed himself to look around.
The mahogany staircase rose straight ahead, bending at a landing before reaching a second-floor gallery that looked down over the foyer.
That was where he saw them.
Two upperclassmen stood at the railing, shoulder to shoulder, looking down at the crowd.
They leaned with their forearms on the banister, relaxed as kings. The one on the left had a square face, thick blond hair parted carefully, a green polo, and effortless posture. He was smiling faintly, not at anyone in particular. The guy beside him had dark hair, buzzed short. His arms were crossed over a faded green T-shirt, and he was speaking in the blond guy's direction.
The blond's eyes moved across the room and, for half a second, seemed to pass over Will. Will glanced away instinctively.
Soon, a voice demanded everyone's attention.
“Yo, freshmen!”
The voice came from the staircase. Will peered over shoulders to see over the crowd. It was the guy from the check-in table, and he stood halfway up the stairs. He had one hand on the railing and a wide, inviting smile. The room quieted fast.
“Welcome, guys. I’m Marcus Brooks, one of the pledge chairs,” he said. “I'm gonna be running shit this weekend, along with Ethan over here." Marcus pointed his thumb at a skinny upperclassman with a fauxhawk leaning against the banister. "Some of you emailed us already. For those of you who did: Please stop... Too many nudes.”
A ripple of nervous laughter moved through the room. Marcus smiled wider.
“Listen, we got fifty-two of you suckers rushing this weekend. And rushing Phi-D-M ain't for the faint of heart. But it's supposed to be fun. Stupid, yes, but fun. So if you got any concerns, come talk to any of us on the board..." Marcus gestured above toward the two upperclassmen leaning against the second-floor railing.
"... Or talk to the house director, Duncan..." Marcus gestured to the blond surfer-cowboy-lion, who was now perched near a wall.
Then Marcus smirked: "Or if you're a real pussy, go whine to Dean Holt about it.”
A few of the frat brothers exchanged looks, which Will couldn't read.
"All right, freshies," Marcus concluded, "Grab another beer before Phase 1. And think long and hard about how bad you want this."
Carter Grace watched the freshmen from the second-floor railing and sorted them prematurely in his mind. He brushed a blond lock from his forehead.
The entry hall below churned with new faces. Some freshmen in pastel shorts. Some freshmen in oversized shirts they'd never ironed. All of them putting on a brave face.
There was a group of varsity crew rowers at the center. A senator’s nephew by the trophy case. Two water polo guys by the archway.
And then there was Hunter.
Finally here, standing near the wall talking to a classmate. Hunter Whitaker looked exactly as Carter remembered: expensive, carefree, and poised. His watch was turned inward on his wrist. Their old prep school habit.
Carter saw Hunter laugh at something his classmate said. The guy was leaning in too closely to Hunter, and Carter felt an old ache tighten his ribs. Then Carter looked away.
Jason Vega, Carter's second-in-command, stood next to him at the railing.
“Gotta pick the right ones this year,” Jason said, his arms crossed over his T-shirt. "No deadweight."
“No deadweight,” Carter repeated. "You got the final list?"
Carter needed to solve a mystery. He knew most of the freshmen's names already, either from all of this year’s parties or from scrolling through the student directory. He was an Eagle Scout after all -- always prepared. But he'd just seen Duncan, the house director, talking to a freshman down below. A freshman who Carter didn't recognize. That was new.
The kid was pale with honey-brown hair, damp with sweat, and wearing a wrinkled blue button-down. He had a soft face, expressive eyes, and looked a bit lanky. Not an athlete. Not obvious money.
“Vega, who’s that?” he'd asked Jason. “Blue shirt, talking to Duncan.”
Jason had no clue either.
The freshman had glanced up timidly. For a second, their eyes met. But Carter gave him nothing. No smile, no nod, no invitation. The kid looked away first, which Carter thought was a good sign he could be malleable.
Soon, Duncan walked away into the crowd, but Carter kept track of the freshman in the blue shirt standing by the wall.
Meanwhile for Will, the next hour was a blur of names.
There was an affable freshman named Derek, a varsity athlete who towered over Will and was friendlier than he looked. Will thought he looked built for football. Derek said he played rugby. Broad neck, thick arms, heavy shoulders. He was wearing a gray T-shirt with the Westmore College logo stretched tightly across his massive chest.
Then there was another freshman named Hunter. He was also tall but slim, with reddish-brown hair and sharp cheekbones. He was wearing a white polo and a watch that looked expensive. Will forced himself to laugh at a pretentious joke that Hunter made. Not that Hunter noticed. Hunter had a way of looking around the room, as if searching for someone better to talk to.
The last person Will met before the madness started was a soft-spoken guy named Benjy. Will found him standing near the bookshelves. He was Will's height but scrawny, with jet-black hair, a smooth face, and round acrylic glasses that he kept pushing up with his left thumb. His right arm was encased in a blue cast from wrist to elbow.
“Bold choice, coming here with a broken arm,” Will said.
Benjy looked startled, then laughed.
“Yeah... Bad timing," he murmured. "Maybe it'll make me memorable... I hope.”
Soon after, the pledge chairs Marcus and Ethan walked into the living room and clapped their hands twice for attention. They were wearing eerie white masks, which made the crowd of pledges do a double-take.
The two men then ushered all the freshmen down the stairs to the basement with a silent sweep of the arm.
Behind them, Marcus called out:
"This is it, fuckers. Point of no return."
The basement was larger than Will expected, but the ceiling hung low. The walls were old wood paneling gone dark with age, and the floor was just concrete. It smelled like dust and beer, musty and stale.
Over twenty upperclassmen circled the room, some in branded T-shirts, others shirtless with green paint melting off their torsos.
Ethan shut the basement door behind them, and the fluorescent lighting dimmed.
“All right, boys," Marcus said. "Clothes off.”
At first, no one moved. No one spoke.
Marcus grinned: "Leave the undies on if you must, freshies. At your peril."
A few guys chuckled nervously.
Everyone began stripping. Shirts came off. Shorts dropped. Sneakers were kicked toward the walls in messy piles. The room filled with the rustling of clothes and the anxious buzz of young men pretending not to care.
Will unbuttoned his shirt with clumsy, trembling fingers.
Heat crawled up his neck. This time, Will told himself it was nerves. It had to be nerves. Not lust.
But everywhere he looked, there was skin: backs, thighs, shoulders, abs. The pale band of a tan line. The dark trail of hair below a navel. The thick bushes in his neighbors' pits.
Some of the more adventurous ones stripped fully nude, and Will caught a glance of a soft cock here and there.
There were too many men in too small a room for Will to pretend he could look anywhere else.
Benjy stood beside Will in black trunks, thin and unsure, his casted forearm tucked close against his smooth brown chest.
Yacht-boy Hunter was across the room, wearing nothing but white briefs underneath a reddish treasure trail, the waistband of his briefs stamped with the name of some designer.
Meanwhile, Derek looked gleeful. His bright seagreen eyes glinted with the anticipation of victory. The thick rugby jock wore tight gray compression trunks with a red Under Armour waistband. They made his already massive body look powerful. His thighs were as wide as tree trunks. His glutes strained the fabric when he bent to remove his socks.
Will looked down at his own pale body and immediately regretted it. His blue boxer briefs were loose, old, and badly chosen. Worse, there was a fraying hole near the thigh. Fucking embarrassing.
What did he get himself into?
“Line up, pledges!” Marcus shouted. "We're wrapping you up!"
Will watched Marcus approach a long plastic bin on the side of the room, overflowing with inflated balloons.
The upperclassmen moved fast. They swarmed the freshmen with rolls of tape, laughing. They taped several balloons around each pledge in two uneven rings, one around the chest, the other around the hips. By the time they were finished, Will had a ridiculous armor of green and white balloons squeaking against his skin like the Michelin Man.
Then Ethan appeared with a Super Soaker.
“No!” someone said.
“Yes,” Ethan grinned.
He pumped the handle lewdly, with theatrical menace, and sprayed the first row of freshmen. The stuff hit Will cold across the shoulders and legs, then warmed almost instantly.
Oil. It smelled like almonds. It was pungent. It coursed thickly over his ribs, down his sides, down his underwear.
Will stiffened as the oil dripped beneath his waistband.
Guys cursed as Marcus and two other seniors joined in with their own water guns, coating shoulders, backs, thighs, balloon knots. The pledges, now crowded in the center of the room, were slick and gleaming, dripping onto the concrete.
The oil made the thin cotton of Will's underwear cling to every curve that it shouldn't. His thighs slid against each other like butter, as the oil trailed down his legs and threatened his footing.
The two board members who Will hadn't met yet -- the blond and the Latino from upstairs -- now watched from the edge of the room.
Duncan stood in the far corner, arms folded, half in shadow, next to a heavy stack of towels. His eyes moved across the room and briefly landed on Will with a grin. Not unkindly.
Will’s stomach tightened. He should have wanted Duncan to look away.
“This is demented,” Benjy whispered.
Derek, beside them, bounced on the balls of his feet, the latex of his balloons squealing. “This'll be awesome.”
Marcus lifted an air horn.
“Rules are simple," he said. "Pop all your balloons. No hands. Use the walls, use each other. First one done wins."
The lights went out for a moment. The basement became nothing but breath and heat.
Then the air horn screamed, and a strobe light began to flash.
Bright. Dark. Bright. Dark. Bright. Dark.
Pandemonium broke open.
Bodies slammed in every direction. Someone shrieked as a balloon burst against the wall.
Will found himself shoved chest-first into someone’s back, slid on the floor, then spun sideways into a tangle of hips and elbows. A balloon popped near his ribs with a sharp explosion, and he yelped before he could stop himself.
The strobe chopped everything into violent little images: A hand sliding off an oiled hip. A waistband dragged low and snapped back. Someone’s face pressed flat to the wall.
Derek threw himself sideways into the paneling, and Hunter lunged at his neighbor. Benjy jumped as two men collided in front of him.
Latex squeaked against skin. But the balloons cushioned everything, turning every collision into a raucous, humiliating, rubbery embrace.
Will saw Derek charge the wall like a bull again.
Three balloons now exploded across Derek's chest in quick succession. Pop-pop-pop. The strobe caught him laughing, head thrown back.
Now bare, Derek's wide chest turned to Will, shining with oil. His muscular pecs flushed red where the latex had snapped against him.
Will saw an opening and took it.
He reached for Derek around his tapered waist.
No. Lower. Much lower.
Both hands on Derek's massive ass. Doughy but firm, the taut spandex wet and slippery.
Far too large for Will's fingers.
Two giant mounds of fuckmeat.
Will's cock twitched. He buried his fingers into Derek's asscheeks and thrusted forward, trying to crush his own balloons against Derek's crotch.
Derek barked out a laugh and shoved back with equal enthusiasm.
He was a good sport, wrapping both his meaty arms around Will to help with the thrusting. The hair in Derek's armpits brushed against Will's shoulders.
For one absurd second they were locked together, slipping and thrusting and going nowhere.
Will's face was level with Derek's huge pink nipples, squeezed between Derek's biceps.
This close, Will could smell the musk emanating from Derek's body.
He felt his cock growing from all the pressure on his crotch.
Fuck, no. Not here.
Meanwhile, the balloons between them simply squashed flat and sprang back against Will's cock.
“Balloon-on-balloon won’t work, genius!” Derek shouted, still laughing, the image of his face stuttering under the strobe.
Before Will could answer, someone slammed hard into him from behind, driving him further into Derek. He would have lost his balance had Derek's forearms not been holding him around the neck.
One of the balloons at Will’s ass burst with a brutal little snap, the sting blooming hot across his ass cheek.
“Fuck!” Will gasped into Derek's smooth sternum.
Will twisted away and nearly collided with Benjy.
Benjy had a few balloons left at his chest and two at his hip. His cast was held stiffly at his side, useless and in the way.
Except not useless.
Will had a flash of inspiration.
“Your cast!” Will shouted over the screams and explosions. "Use it!"
Understanding crossed Benjy’s face. They moved together without another word.
Benjy braced his cast between them, hard plaster wedged against the slick curve of one of Will’s balloons. Will pressed in from one side. Benjy leaned from the other.
Then it burst, followed by a pop from one of Benjy's.
“Yes!” Benjy shouted. The cast became their secret weapon. Will forgot to be embarrassed. He was having too much fun.
They did it again in rapid succession. Chest-to-cast. Hip-to-cast. Ass-to-cast.
Will’s final balloon popped against the plaster. Benjy’s last balloon exploded a second later.
“Done!” they yelled together, jumping twice.
The air horn went off again, long and earsplitting.
The lights snapped back on. Will felt his boner pulsating halfway across his thigh.
Everyone froze in the sudden brightness: slick, panting, nearly naked.
Some guys' underwear had fallen off. All were surrounded by scraps of dead balloons stuck to the wet floor.
Ethan pointed at Will and Benjy in the middle of the crowd.
"Tie?"
They nodded honorably.
“Names?”
Will deepened his voice. “Will. Will Mercer.”
“Benjy,” Benjy said, then swallowed. “Benjy Ramirez.”
Ethan looked amused. “Mercer and Ramirez. First winners of the weekend!”
A few people clapped. Derek cheered in kind support.
Will looked down to assess the damage, peeling latex and tape off his naked chest.
His briefs were soaked dark with oil, hanging low on his hips.
And they were draped over a hard outline he couldn't hide.
"Looks like Mercer got a hard-on from all the fun!" Marcus yelled.
The room erupted in jeers and laughter, and Will's cheeks burned red. He adjusted his posture and imagined sinking into the floor.
"You liked that shit?" Marcus chided.
"Bet he did!" a shirtless stranger added.
"And he's packin' heat!" Ethan added. "Got a big boy in the house."
Will tried to smile, still breathing hard, still feeling the sting on his skin.
But beneath the shame, something smaller and darker stirred.
Something unexpected.
He liked being noticed this way.
He liked being watched.
The realization moved through him, hot and addictive.
He looked past Marcus and Ethan.
There was the blond upperclassman in the green polo who Will had seen lording over the foyer. He was now looking at Will from the side of the room. Assessing him. As if Will had become more interesting all of a sudden.
And in the corner, Duncan's mouth curved into the faintest smile.
That night, the Phi Delta Mu board met in their private lounge on the second floor.
Carter stood by the window and watched the freshmen leave beneath the porch light.
Most of them left in clusters. A few walked alone, pretending not to look shaken. Carter always noticed the ones who left alone.
Then Will Mercer walked out beside Benjy Ramirez, both of them laughing with renewed comfort.
Cute.
Behind Carter, the lounge was a dim narrow room with dark wood paneling, old rugs, and mismatched furniture. Board members only. And Duncan. That had been the rule for decades.
Duncan sat in the corner, one ankle over his knee, saying nothing.
In the center of the room, Jason was sprawled barefoot across one of the leather chairs, his hairy legs draping over the side. Marcus sat backward on a chair near the table, taking a swig from a beer bottle, and Ethan had plugged his laptop into the TV, its screen as wide as a dining table.
Flickering on, the screen displayed the first freshman profile photo of the night: a smiling, wide-shouldered guy with wavy dark hair.
“Derek Collins," Jason said. "First impression? Easy lock.”
“Of course you’d say Derek,” Ethan said.
“He’s useful,” Jason said. “Strong, confident, no bullshit. Real man.”
Ethan scoffed.
Carter turned from the window. “Derek's fair game. He stays in discussion.”
That was all he had to say. Ethan dragged Derek’s photo into the column marked "Strong".
“Water polo guys?” Marcus asked.
“Boring,” Ethan said. “All of them. If I wanted dead eyes and abs, I’d just go on Instagram.”
Marcus laughed and threw a pillow at him. “You’re just mad none of them got hard in front of everyone.”
“Actually, that is my next point.” Ethan clicked twice, and Will Mercer’s directory photo appeared on the screen.
It was an older photo from the beginning of the school year. In the picture, Mercer looked even softer than he had in person. His honey-brown hair was shorter. Bright blue eyes a bit too open.
"Hung as a horse too," Ethan said.
Jason frowned. “Pass.”
“You’re insane,” Ethan said. “Mercer won.”
“He got lucky.”
“He thought quick,” Carter interrupted.
The room shifted slightly. Jason looked over at Carter.
Marcus tilted his bottle toward the screen. “Also, the room liked him.”
“They liked laughing at him,” Jason said.
“And yet he took it on the chin,” Marcus said.
Ethan grinned. “Some of us are known for that.”
Carter looked at Mercer’s face a moment longer. He hadn't expected the boy in the wrinkled blue shirt to become a contender. But the house loved a good surprise.
“Move him to Maybe,” Carter said, and that was that.
After Will Mercer, a few athletes were placed in the Strong category and a series of nerds were dumped into the No pile.
Benjy Ramirez came next.
Round glasses. Black hair. Small shoulders. Even his cast was visible in the photo.
Jason sighed. “More deadweight.”
“He won tonight too,” Ethan remarked.
“More luck."
“Still won.”
Carter almost smiled. “'Give him a Maybe.”
Ethan obeyed and dragged him over.
Then Hunter appeared on the screen.
“Hunter Whitaker,” Jason said, reading from his notes. “Anybody know his deal?”
Hunter’s profile photo was offensively good. Of course it was. His reddish-brown hair swept up neatly. Clear skin and a perfect, easy smile. But not his real smile.
Carter knew the difference, though no one else in the room knew that he did. Nor should they.
Carter remembered a dock at sunset. Hunter’s mouth against his ear, laughing softly. Hunter's hand gliding on his skin, telling him not to be so serious.
Then the lounge returned.
Marcus squinted at the screen. “He looks rich.”
“He is,” Carter said.
Jason glanced at him. “You know him?”
Carter reached for his beer, took a slow sip, then nodded.
“Prep school?” Ethan asked.
“Yeah,” Carter said. “Family’s connected. Alumni will like him.”
Then, from his perch in the corner, almost forgotten, Duncan spoke up.
“Real question is who can make it through The Runoff,” Duncan said.
The word settled over the room.
Carter kept his eyes on the TV. He had been through The Runoff two years ago, when it was decided which pledge would snag the free room in the frat house.
Carter remembered the darkness more than anything. The heat and the anticipation. His own breath turning harsh and loud in his ears.
Duncan had been there too.
Carter glanced at Duncan, who was looking right back at him. He knew Duncan was thinking the same thing.
"Put him under Strong," Carter told Ethan conclusively, his eyes still on Duncan.
Ethan clicked back through all the photos. Ten freshmen under Strong. Eighteen of them under Maybe. The rest -- over twenty -- tossed under No.
Carter walked closer to the enormous TV.
Will’s profile photo sat in the center of the Maybe column, his uncertain little freshman smile frozen under the harsh blue light of the screen.
Sure, Will looked more youthful here than he'd been in the basement. But he wasn't weak. Not after tonight.
The house had noticed him now, and that was how it usually started.
In the corner, Duncan said nothing -- but he didn't have to. Carter could feel him watching.
Carter squinted at the screen and wondered.
Will Mercer...
How far are you willing to go?
--TO BE CONTINUED--
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