Page 143 of Filthy Elites

Blacklisted – Angel Lawson

ONE

Reagan

From the outside, the house looks regal. White columns and a broad staircase leading to wide double doors. Bold Greek letters hang from the front gable. That impression holds in the front foyer where large, framed composite photographs of each pledge class spanning the last hundred years hang in tidy rows.

Like an onion, the deeper one goes into the house, the more layers pull back, the more truth is revealed about the people inside. Royer Atkinson, my boyfriend of the last nine months, is one of those people.

“Fraternity Rush begins next week,” Chancellor Billups says, “and I don’t think I need to inform you that Zeta Sigma will not survive another hazing incident like last year’s.”

They’re in the parlor, an outer layer of the frat. One with uncomfortable chairs and finely woven rugs. Royer sits across from the Chancellor, legs casually crossed, looking like the college student the University would want on the cover of their recruitment brochure. Wavy blond hair, blue eyes, chiseled features. Every time I look at him, I wonder why he chose me? How did I get so lucky?

“I can assure you, Chancellor, the rush advisory board has already been warned.” He leans forward slightly. “We take what happened last year seriously, don’t we, Andrea.”

Andrea sits in another chair, the yin to Royer’s yang. As the sorority chairperson, she’s all about appearance. More than the guys. Her platinum white hair rolls over her shoulder in perfect waves, her makeup and outfit are on point, as well as her shoes, expensive and appropriate. “Don’t drag me into this,” she says with no bite. “We’re announcing bids tonight. There have been no issues and I don’t expect any.”

My stomach flips at the mention of bid night and I press my back against the wall. I’m just outside the parlor, tucked in the small butler pantry that connects the room to the kitchen. This house is historic and filled with a dozen secret nooks. Or at least that’s what Royer has told me. He pushed me in here when the Chancellor arrived with Andrea for their meeting.

Sorority rush has been going on for a week. A thousand girls have had a dozen rounds with each sorority, each including interviews and parties, outfits, and hairstyles. Before we even got on campus, we had to scrub our social media, gather recommendations, pick out the perfect clothes, jewelry, and manicure. Over the last five days, I’ve watched girls have breakdowns, cry, scream, panic. I’ve kept it together despite the anxiety and nerves. I’ve made it through all the cuts—I just need to get through the final night. Contact with members of the sorority is forbidden during the week—no one can be seen playing favorites, but Royer has assured me Andrea will make sure I’m a top recruit. I should be. I’ve doneeverythingright.

That’s why he pushed me into the closet. If Billups sees me anywhere near Andrea all my—no,our—hard work will be for nothing.

“We’re watching everything,” Billups says. “Alcohol, drugs, bullying…” Her eyes dart between the two leaders. “The national office is prepared to revoke your charters if necessary.”

“We want to build relationships,” Andrea says, toying with the pearl hanging from a thin, gold chain. I touch my neck. Royer gave me a similar one over the summer to celebrate six months together after I’d admired hers. “Sisterhood is our priority. Building long-lasting relationships.”

Royer chimes in. “What happened to that pledge last year… that was a tragic accident. No one, fraternity or sorority, wants to see something like that happen again.”

Billups is quiet for a long moment, like she’s trying to decide if she can trust them or not. It’s valid. I’ve heard the stories that Royer and his friends retell. Fraternity rush sounds like a nightmare, but they claim it’s part of the process. It’s what builds their bonds. I’m just glad the sororities aren’t like this. Sure, they’re judgmental and can be petty, but that’s how the game is played. If you can’t take it, don’t rush.

Finally, the Chancellor stands. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. The last thing Whittmore needs is bad press.”

“No one wants that,” Royer says, having stood with her. “I expect this year’s rush to go smoothly.” He smiles, flashing her the flirty one that makes my knees weak. “I promise. Why don’t I show you around the house and you can see for yourself?”

As they move, I peer through the crack in the door, trying to get a better look. My eyes land on Royer’s hand resting against Andrea’s lower back as they escort the Chancellor out of the parlor. Nausea builds in the back of my throat—dark jealousy. We started dating last Christmas. My friend’s older brother had a party, filled with college guys, and he let us come. Royer was there and not only was he interested in me that night, but we also started dating for real.

I can’t blame Royer for wanting a woman like Andrea. She’s perfection. Everything I aspire to be. Once I get my bid, I can rise to a power of position in the sorority. Then Royer will look at me with the same level of respect and admiration. I’m too distracted by his hand and my own insecurity to hear that someone has entered the closet behind me, from the kitchen, until I feel a hand on my hip.

“Sneaking around?”

The voice sends a tremor down my spine. Miller Hansen. Royer’s best friend.

“No.” I shift away, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Royer didn’t want the Chancellor to see me here. It’s bid day.” I glare at him.

“Ah, one last day to get through and then you’ll get those letters you can slap across your tits to prove to everyone you belong.”

I roll my eyes and finally look at him. He’s painfully attractive. With dangerous cobalt eyes and dark hair that ever so casually flops over his forehead. His skin is warm and perpetually tanned from being outside, playing ball or lazing around. He’s better looking than Royer, but less motivated. It doesn’t matter. His good looks and charming smile get him everything he wants. Royer wants to be president. Miller is happy to just be second in command, VP. Power without the pesky work. That’s why he’s in the pantry with me and not in the meeting.

“You’re in a frat too,” I say. “Don’t pretend like being Greek isn’t important to you.”

“I’m here for the parties.” His eyes rake down my body. “And the pussy.”

A chill of revulsion trembles down my spine. “You’re disgusting.”

The bright blue in his eyes flickers out and turns a shade darker. His hand snaps out, fingers gripping my chin tight. “You should be nice to me, Reagan. There’s still time for me to fuck things up for you.”

We stand like that for a beat—Miller holding my face in place, forcing me to look at him.

---