Page 164 of Filthy Elites

Reagan

The path I take from the Zeta Sig house to my dorm is beyond a walk of shame. It’s a fucked-up, twisted maze of insanity and desperation. The only solace I have is that no one on campus, other than Miller, recognizes me. For a girl, this is the walk of shame. A guy? A stride of pride.

I stop and vomit in the bushes. Bent over and heaving, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and continue home.

In my dorm room, while the water heats in the shower, I rinse my mouth with mouthwash, letting the antiseptic burn. My tits ache. I think it’s from being in that compression tank all night, but when I pull it off, I see the bruises forming in the shape of fingertips.Bastard.Pushing open the curtain, I dunk under the stream of water. I have it up as high as it will go, trying to burn off Miller’s cum. I scrub and lather, but even after I’m dried off, and in my pajamas, I still feel dirty. Marked. Will that ever go away?

I don’t even think about the rest of it. The way it felt to have Miller over me, forced to confront his ripped body and perfect face. The way his fingers closed around my throat and the way my body reacted. That’s the real shame. The true betrayal. The one I did to myself.

Is that who I am? The girl that gets off on men treating her like shit? If the last week has proven anything, it may be that.

Turing off the light, I crawl into bed, sinking into the clean sheets. I’ve never been so tired. So confused. Is any of this worth it? Royer? Andrea? Getting my place back in the social hierarchy?

My phone buzzes.

Grayson: How did it go?

Reagan: Everything’s fine.

Grayson: Are you sure? I came by last night to check on you. You didn’t answer.

Reagan: I’m doing what you asked me to.

There’s a pause, the blinking gray dots of him typing and maybe deleting. Determining what to say…

Grayson: Stay safe.

I stare at the words. If he wanted me to stay safe, he wouldn’t have asked me to do this. The risk was too high. He knew it more than anyone.

Reagan: I’ll try.

I could—should—tell him about Miller busting me, but I have no doubt Miller would expose me. I can’t risk it. I shove the phone under my pillow and crash. I dream of crowded hallways and shiny skirts. Black lace thongs and toilet bowls. Wicked grins and devil horns. The blast of a vibration under my pillow jolts me awake. I read the text bleary eyed.

Pledge Educator:Come to the house. Dress in semi-formal attire. Pack minimally, but for the week. Bring a sleeping bag and a backpack with your laptop, textbooks, and any other required schoolwork. Wait outside your residence. You have thirty minutes.

Turning on the bedside light, I look over at the supplies Grayson sent to my room. It’s all of those things, including the sleeping bag and an extra backpack. He knew this was coming and didn’t warn me.

All I want is to turn off the lights and pull the blanket over my head, but if I do, the world will know about Theodore Hart and the embarrassing way I got busted. Royer and Andrea will know, and neither of them will ever suffer a consequence for their shitty behavior.

Resigned, I hop out of bed and do the only thing I can: pack.

* * *

They jump me the second I walk out of the dorm, coming out of the dark. Hood thrown over my head, arms and legs hoisted off the ground. My high-pitched yelp is smothered by the fabric. I should be afraid, and I am, but it’s not about being kidnapped. I’ve heard the horror stories about hell week and kind of expected it. No, I’m terrified and praying no one notices my boobs or the fact there’s no junk between my legs as they carry me off.

“Keep your mouth shut and hood on,” is all that is said after they toss me in the back of a vehicle. I land on another body; warm and bony. He grunts when my elbow slams into his gut.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

“Shut the fuck up or we’ll make a detour!”

I clamp my mouth closed and try not to notice how little air is coming through the hood.

The vehicle drives erratically, on purpose, flinging our bodies across the back of what I assume is a van. Loud music spills from the front and if the drivers are speaking, I can’t hear them. It’s not just the music. My heart pounds, heavy and loud, pulsing in my ears. This is really happening. There’s no going back.

There’s another stop. Another pledge is tossed in the back. This one lands on my leg, forcing it into an awkward position. Tears burn at my eyes and my nose stuffs up, making my efforts to breathe worse.Get your shit together,Reagan, I tell myself. The consequences are too big for me to fuck up anything, including suffocating.

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