Page 73 of The Naughty Virgin

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Caleb

Clouds were only the beginning. It was more like a fucking blizzard of supernova proportions, debilitating the University and shocking in its magnitude. The papers came out the next day and the headlines themselves were unbelievable.

“A RAPE ON CAMPUS: A BRUTAL ASSAULT AND STRUGGLE FOR JUSTICE” screamed the cover of Rolling Stone. Plus, a few secondary publications had caught on, belittling the university, calling DUP and other fraternities “Greek Gangs” and the like.

I could hardly believe it. As I scanned the story, the so-called facts came rolling out. Evidently, Sandy, a pseudonym for the diabolical Brenda, alleged she’d been gang-raped at a frat party by seven guys. I snorted right there. I vaguely remembered a brunette dancing around with a friend during the party, but that particular brunette had offered herself freely and willingly, holding her cunt open for all. She wasn’t even cute in my opinion, skinny as a twig with bad skin.

But the rape was graphic and disgusting, recounted in excruciating detail in the magazine. Allegedly, someone had slapped a hand over Sandy’s mouth, preventing her from screaming, and when she bit it, someone else had punched her in the face, yelling, “Grab its motherfucking leg.”

Sandy also purported to remember every moment of the three-hour rape, in which seven men took turns doing her, while two more – including her date – gave instruction and encouragement. While the last man sank into her, evidently there were cries of “Pussy!” and “What, she’s not hot enough for you?” because the poor guy looked like he was going to cry or puke. Then the brothers egged him on, asking, “What, don’t you want to be a brother? We all had to do it, so you should too.”

I slapped the magazine closed at this point. I was a made brother within DUP and I knew that there was no “rape requirement” to join the fraternity, it was all fucking lies. Sure there had been some sex, even public sex, but nothing described in the article had happened. This was fucking libel.

I called my brother immediately. “Cade, did you see the article?” I asked as soon as he answered.

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Did you see that part about us?”

Oh shit. I hadn’t given the piece a close read, instead focusing only on the lurid details of the rape itself. “No, what,” I commanded.

He proceeded to quote directly from the story:

And two of the rapists present were the notorious Sterling twins, Caleb and Caden, CFO and Head of Tech at Sterling Pharmaceutical based in California. Will money shield the twins from their depraved acts? Will the rich “game the system” in this case? Only time will tell.

Oh fuck. That was bad. So evidently the press had no problem with outing alleged “guilty” defendants, although the identities of the victims were kept private. It seemed so unfair, so unbelievable. They were calling us rapists already, when we should have been presumed innocent. How was that justifiable whatsoever?

I growled menacingly.

“I hear you brother,” said Cade dryly, still on the line. “I hear you. What next?”

The truth was, I wasn’t sure. It was tempting to go public immediately, denounce the article, take out an ad in the Times to proclaim our innocence. But it would be playing right into their hands, creating more allegations that we were rich boys with the ability to buy our way out.

“We wait,” I growled. “And I’m giving Phipps a call.”

“Do that and tell him not to leave anything out,” replied Cade.

As soon as I hung up, I dug up the number to Phipps, a journalist with a blog. James Phipps had worked at the Washington Post back in the day, but had quit at fifty to start his own blogroll, deeming the traditional press too “vacuous” and “undisciplined.” He was a salt-of-the-earth type of guy, crusty but bold.

Phipps picked up on the first ring.

“My man,” he said, “is this what I think it’s about?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Look into it, will you? Hunt down all discrepancies, figure out everything there is to know about the accuser.”

“Do you know her real name?” asked Phipps. “It’ll give me a head start in destroying her story.”

I thought for a long minute. Was it a crime to disclose the name of the alleged victim? Maybe for the press, but not for me.

“Brenda Bey,” I said shortly. “That’s the place to start.”

“You got it boss,” said Phipps, “prepare for Armageddon.”

“Good, keep me updated,” I said grimly.

And as I walked home, I thought about the consequences. Obviously, my brother and I would be exonerated. There had been no gang rape, nothing of that sort, nor had Cade or I touched anyone. Sure, it’d been a debauched party but there was no rape of Sandy, it was two girls, Brenda and Vera, who’d offered themselves to a roomful of men. We would destroy them.

What required special handling though, was the total annihilation of Brenda’s credibility, the public outing of a desperate girl who had concocted this scheme for some bizarre reason. But why? What had driven her to mislead the public, to tell all these lies? A need for attention? Publicity? Didn’t she realize she was wrecking her future?

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