Page 182 of Filthy Elites

“No, with me,” she says. “Look at me, Miller. I definitely have no ID and with this haircut I look, at best, like a fourteen-year-old boy.”

I shrug. “You’ll figure something out. Everyone does.”

“Everyone?”

I crank the engine. “Almost everyone, but I haven’t lost yet, and I don’t plan on it tonight.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “You have something special up your sleeve? A fake? You know the clerk?”

“No,” I say, backing out of the parking spot. “This is all on you, kitten, but I have no doubt you’ll pull this off.”

* * *

Okay,maybe I overestimated Reagan on this one. She does look younger with her hair shaved. Royer always bought her booze, so she doesn’t have a convincing fake ID. And whatever spitfire attitude that normally gets her though these rituals seems to have faded under the neon beer signs hanging on the liquor store walls.

“I give up,” she says after the third store. “You need to go back and find a new partner.”

Eight other teams have come and gone while we’ve been in this parking lot. I should leave, heading out to the next option, but I haven’t been able to make myself go. Gripping the steering wheel, I stare over her in the passenger seat, shoulder slumped, teeth worrying her bottom lip. She’s right. This is pointless. Except I think about what I would do if she was a normal guy—just a stupid freshman boy learning the ropes of Zeta Sig.

I’d beat his ass raw if he pussied out like this.

I’d drag him in there again. Humiliate him. Emasculate. I’d ride that kid until he was on the edge of a breakdown and then teach him how to be a man.

I sigh heavily and then say, “Get out of the car.”

She looks up, eyes shiny. God. She’s crying. “You’re leaving me here?” Her hands wring together.

“Fuck no.” I open my door and step out, slamming it behind me. I circle around and jerk open her door. “Get out of the goddamn car. We’re not done here.”

She stares at me but doesn’t move. I grab her by the arm and yank her out. She stumbles, but I hold on tight, keeping her from falling. “But he said no.”

Heis the greasy-haired guy behind the counter who took one look at Theodore Hart and denied his purchase.

“It’s time to man the fuck up,Theodore.” She flinches when I use the male version of her name. “It’s time to get in there and prove you can do this.”

“I’m not a—”

“You are tonight. And I’m not going to embarrass myself by not winning. Straighten your spine. Grow a pair of balls.” I grab her between the legs, squeezing the lump of socks. “Get in there and buy me a fucking bottle of whisky.”

She stares at me for a long moment, eyes wide and caught in some kind of battle. There are times I know Reagan is about to quit, where she’s about to get pushed too far. I’ve learned that her stubborn streak is higher than her need for self-preservation. Defiance flickers in her eye and she says, “Fine,” and turns stalking back toward the store.

I follow her in, and this time she doesn’t roam around, taking a minute to gather up her courage like she’s done all the other times. She goes straight for the bottle, snatching it off the shelf and slides it across the counter.

The clerk lifts his eyes from the magazine splayed on the counter before him. He looks like he’s in his forties, with gray streaks at his temple. A faded tattoo of a dragon peeks out from under his shirt sleeve.

“I’d like to buy this,” Reagan says, voice modulated lower.

“I already told you. No ID, no booze, kid.”

“I’m not a kid and I told you I left it at home.”

“Sure, you did. With your algebra homework. You look like you’re twelve.” He picks up a magazine on the counter and starts flipping through it. “Stop bugging me.”

I’m standing where she can see me, slightly behind the clerk, by a booze display. It has a sexy girl in a tight bikini holding a margarita. Reagan looks up at me and I give her a hard stare.

Her eyes flick to the margarita display, then back to the clerk. She straightens her shoulders and says, “I know I may look twelve, but looks can be deceiving.”

He lowers the magazine and smirks. “Oh yeah?”

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