Page 200 of Filthy Elites

It’s the tone that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Royer has that way about him, easy but smug. Casual but condescending. I get to my feet.

He leans against the bathroom doorjamb, holding an apple in one hand and a pocketknife in the other. Slowly, he starts peeling off the skin. “You didn’t come back last night after the party.”

“I was with the, uh,” I search for the word I heard Rat use the night before, “chit, and passed out after.”

“Sloppy. Zeta Sigs aren’t sloppy. What if she’d woken up before you and called the police?” The blade pauses over the stem of the apple, and he looks up at me. “We’re collected and controlled all the time, even when someone is sucking our balls. It’s how we’ve managed to slip past the council despite our many traditions.”

I hold back a laugh. Royer thinks he’s slipped past the Council, but he has no idea Grayson can see every moment of this exchange. He doesn’t realize that he’s being recorded right now. God, seeing him go down will be the highlight of my eighteen years.

“I know Miller lets you get away with doing whatever you want, but not this time.”

“You think scrubbing down this bathroom is what I want to do? Do you know how much pee and cum was stuck to the toilet?”

“It’s women’s work,” he says, scoffing. “Appropriate for someone who spends their life on their knees. But I shouldn’t be surprised Miller gave you pussy work.”

“Knox is the one that told me to do it.” I grit my teeth. “I don’t even know where Miller is.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m here now and I’m going to teach you how to be a man, a brother, and not a soft vagina.” He drops the peel on the floor, right on the clean tile.

There’s a moment that ebbs between us, and I wonder if he knows the truth. If we’re both playing a game of cat and mouse, because his fixation on me is excessive. But then I remember how petty he is, how impulsive and childish. This is about the council pushing ‘Theo Hart’ through the Zeta Sig gate, and Miller daring to go against him by backing me.

This is about him being evil and looking for someone smaller, weaker, and less connected to fuck with.

None of that makes any difference when I see the dark flicker in his eye. It sends a chill down my spine. “I think you need a little bit of brotherly love.” He jerks his head down the hall. “Go wait in the parlor.”

“Brotherly love?” I clutch the scrub brush in my hand, my fingers raw and burning from the bleach. “What does that mean?”

“It means that you should follow an order without talking back for once in your goddamn life,” every muscle in his face tightens, “or things are about to get worse than they already are.”

He pops the rest of the apple in his mouth, then closes the blade shut with a loud snap. I drop the brush in the bucket and wash my hands, caught with a ball of dread building in my stomach. I’m so close to being done with this. So close to catching them. But maybe this is the opportunity I’ve been looking for. The camera is attached to my chest and Royer is pissed enough that whatever ‘brotherly love’ is, may be worth it.

I go straight to the parlor. Miller and Knox are both sitting on the couch. Miller’s legs are sprawled out as he checks his phone. Knox raises an eyebrow. “You finished already, forty-seven?”

“No.” I step over the threshold into the room. It’s an old-fashioned room with painted glass lamps and a stone fireplace against the back wall. An uncomfortable-looking couch and chairs covered in a pale, floral print fill the space, along with a slant-topped writing desk tucked into the corner. “Royer told me to come here and wait.”

Miller’s body tenses, the causal stance vanishing. The two men share an uneasy look.

“Wait for what?” Miller asks.

“For my punishment? Cleaning that disgusting bathroom wasn’t enough. He said something about brotherly love? I don’t know.”

“Brotherly love?” Knox repeats. “He said that?”

I nod.

“Fuck,” Miller mutters, fingers shoving into his thick hair. “Fucking fuck.”

Knox just swallows thickly.

“What?” His reaction makes me nervous. “What does that mean—”

Rat stands in the doorway, a dark grin on his mouth. “Forty-seven. I’ve been looking for you all day.” He looks at Miller and scowls. “You’re not saving him this time, Hansen.”

His wide hand pushes me deeper into the room and I barely catch myself before crashing into the coffee table. When I turn, Rat is holding a fraternity paddle in his hands. The Zeta Sigma letters are burned into the smooth yellow wood, along with dozens of etched names. He spins it around by the handle. For the first time in all of this, I’m truly afraid. Rat grins, baring his teeth. He can smell my fear.

“This is the frat paddle,” he says, holding the long shaft at the end. “It’s only on rare occasions we have to bring it out and assert brotherly love. Usually it’s when a brother, or a pledge, is showing disrespect to the process. Or needs a little reminder of their place in this community.” He points the end at me. “This is one of those times.”

“Because I was late?” I ask, my voice a squeak. “You’re going to spank me?”

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