Page 165 of Filthy Elites

I close my eyes and think about something else—anything. Last summer at the lake. Royer waving from the water as he expertly skied around the cove. Miller’s sitting in the back of the boat, sprawled out in the sun. The V dipping below his shorts. The taste of salt on my tongue.

No!

My heart hammers harder than before. The vehicle screeches to a stop, tossing all of us forward, and freeing my leg from under the other pledge.

The music stops. The doors open. Hands grab me and drag me out, dropping me on the ground.

“Get the fuck up, asswipe.”

I scramble to my feet, hearing the sounds of the others next to me. There are more vehicles pulling up. More orders are barked until I hear the shuffling footsteps of dozens of pledges.

Just when I think I may pass out from the heat and nausea and lack of air, the hood is yanked off my head. A rush of cool air hits my face and I gulp, taking in as much as I can. All around me are other pledges with sweaty hair matted to their foreheads, eyes wide and panicked. Lights shine from a building in front of us. Although it’s clearly a large house, it’s not the Zeta Sig house. Theirs is a mansion—this… it looks like a farmhouse. Grayson told me one work around Royer would employ is to have initiation off campus, at an undisclosed location.

Before I can worry about it more, my belongings are tossed at me, slamming hard into my chest.

“Welcome to Education Week!” A voice blasts through a bullhorn. He walks into the glare of the light shining from the building. I don’t need to see his face to know who it is. Knox’s six foot plus frame gives him away. “That’s the name the Council wants you to call it, but that’s bullshit and we all know it. Fraternities have initiation week, or what most of them call Hell Week. Not at Zeta Sig. We don’t just drag you through hell. We put you through the gauntlet.”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard the word. Miller said it in his room—that I’d never survive without him.

“Tonight, you cease being individuals. You’re just a bunch of goats. A piece of shit. Dried cum on the athletic sock in my drawer. If you make it through the week, you’ll have the honor of being a brother. For life.” Knox says it all with passion and intensity. Like it’s the most important speech of his life. “If you don’t? That’s a mark of shame you’ll bear until you die.”

A fraternity brother, dressed in all black, walks through the crowd, handing out Zip-lock bags. Knox speaks again. “Put your phones, ID, wallet, andegoin the bag. Don’t plan on seeing any of those again for seven days.”

A sense of intense dread pools in the pit of my stomach, but I grab the items he listed and put them in the Zip-lock. In the crowd of pledges surrounding me, I hear, “Fuck this shit,” and then, “I’m out of here.”

There’s collective shift in the group, a moment where everyone sees an escape. If they go, we can go. Knox must sense it, too.

“You leave,” Knox says, “don’t come back and don’t even think of rushing again. Zeta Sig isn’t interested in cowards.”

The threat is obvious. They’ll be blacklisted, like me. Unlike me, there’s no vibe of the humiliation that brought them down. Also, unlike me, they don’t want it enough.

Two people end up leaving, grabbing their things, and walking down the dark road alone. Knox mocks them until they’re out of sight, calling them babies and pussies and cum-soaked-vaginas. When he’s satisfied no one else is leaving, he turns his focus back on us. “The building behind me is where the current members of Zeta Sig will be staying. We’ve rented it out for the week. You shitheads, who we will be referring to asgoatsfrom here on out, will be living over there.” A bright light swings across the yard to reveal another building. It’s immediately obvious what that building is. Or was. A barn. “Other than going to classes, your days and nights will be spent in the barn. You’ll eat, sleep, shit, and jerk off in there.” He jabs his thumb at the faded red building. “You’ll also have every opportunity to become a man. A brother. A family.” He scans the crowd. “If anyone else wants to quit, now is your chance, because once you enter the doors, there’s no leaving with your integrity or reputation intact.”

No one else moves, although I can almost taste the apprehension in the air. Independence has never been my thing, but when they line us up, take our belongings and herd us into the barn, I’m pretty sure the cowards that left are the smartest ones of the bunch.

TEN

Miller

The barn smells exactly like you’d expect: thick dusty hay, oily gasoline, and the unmistakable scent of manure. The expression on the goats’ faces as they enter are priceless. Welcome to the gauntlet, bitches.

“I can’t believe you found this place,” Royer says.

“My dad’s company buys up a lot of foreclosed property,” I reply. “This one went for a steal. As soon as I saw it in his portfolio, I knew it was perfect for the gauntlet.”

As the goats pack into the center of the barn, clutching their belongings to their chests, I scan for Reagan. I know she got picked up. Was she one of the ones that left? If she was smart, she would’ve taken the public humiliation and walked away, but there’s something about this girl. She’s not a quitter—continuing long after it’s prudent for her to cut her losses. Of course, that’s one of the things that makes her so much fun. There’s nothing I like more than a feisty, determined girl.

It’s way more fun to break them down.

Knox takes a position on a stack of pallets. “This will be your living quarters for the rest of the week. You’ll sleep here. Food will be delivered here. There’s an outhouse around back and a stall for showering. You will do those things when given permission. You may go to your classes, but otherwise, your ass is ours. Understood?”

There’s a murmur of yeses among the group, and I finally locate Reagan. It’s weird how much a haircut and a change of clothes altered her appearance. If I hadn’t been obsessing over her mouth for the last six months, I don’t think I would’ve made the connection. Royer should have, but he’s a self-absorbed asshole. He probably never really looked at Reagan’s face. Her tits, sure. Her eyes? Doubtful.

Like everyone else, she has a number taped to her shirt, #47. Her eyes are red from lack of sleep and her hair is a mess from the bag. The dark curls hang over her forehead, and she tries to hide behind it, using the swoop of bangs to cover her eyes.

I jab Royer and ask, “Any idea who you’re going to pick?”

Officers traditionally choose one pledge to champion, harass, and bet on during the gauntlet. It’s a good excuse to keep Reagan close.

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