Page 166 of Filthy Elites

“I’m torn between eighteen and six.” Hawthorne and Thompson. Both solid picks. Legacies, athletes, rich and smart. He looks over at me. “What about you?”

I pretend to search the crowd, like I’m still thinking about it. I’m not one to tip my hand, but I need to know if he suspects anything. “I kind of want to see what forty-seven is all about.”

“The one with the letter? Theo?” Knox asks, walking over and resting the bullhorn on the floor. “Seems kind of weak, although he was quick to hook up with Brianna last night. Dude doesn’t waste time.” He laughs. “Do you really think he’ll make it through the gauntlet?”

I shrug. “I’m willing to take the risk.”

Royer’s eyes go to Reagan, assessing her carefully. “I don’t know. That letter still rubs me the wrong way. Who is the council to tell us who to let in?”

It’s clear he doesn’t realize who Theo really is. Probably because he’s still bitter about the council getting involved. Royer isn’t used to people telling him what to do or setting limits on his actions. None of us are really, but he dislikes it more than anyone. I just choose to find my own way around the rules. I watch Reagan unroll her sleeping bag on the dusty floor. “If this kid is so important to the Council, then I feel like I should give him special treatment. Make sure he’s really up to the standards of being a Zeta Sig.”

Royer laughs. “Good point.”

I rub my hands together, thinking about the potential. When I locked Reagan into this agreement, I wasn’t sure how it would work out. If she’d even show back up, but now that we’re here, I’m excited. The possibilities for the week are endless. To the rest of the frat, it will just look like I’m molding a pledge into a brother, but in reality, I’ll be breaking down this little bitch who thinks she can get one over on the Zeta Sigs,and, taking out our current president.

For the next week, Reagan Lake, or as she’ll be known for the rest of the week, number forty-seven, is mine.

And I’m about to make her life hell.

* * *

It’s late when the goats finally get settled. Most are probably still hung over from the party the night before. I know I’m running on fumes, but that doesn’t mean it’s time for a break.

Most of the pledges have just settled into their sleeping bags when bright lights click on and one of the gauntlet runners shouts over the bullhorn, “Baaaaaaa baaaaa,” he bleats, “Get up! One more task before the night is over.”

The room groans, but everyone complies, even if it’s grudgingly.

“There’s an old horse pen that circles the field out back. Complete four laps and then you can go to bed.”

Across the room, Reagan’s shoulders droop. She’s exhausted. Worn out from the party, the drugs in her drink and what transpired between us.

I grab the arm of one of my brother’s passing by. “Hey, Rat, tell forty-seven to come to my room.”

Rat pauses. “And miss the run?”

Rat got his nickname during his week in the gauntlet for cutting his long hair but leaving a sliver of a rattail hanging down the back of his neck. The hair is long gone, but the nickname stuck. Now he’s covered in tattoos, including a massive one on his chest of a rat chewing his way out of his ribcage. He’s worked his way up to Warden—the person who doles out the majority of the initiation activities.

“He’ll make it up,” I assure him. “I’ve got some work that needs to be handled. Worse than the run.”

He laughs. “Gotcha.”

I exit the barn and cross the yard toward the main house. It took me months to find this place, scouring through my father’s properties. Our family has lived in this area for a century and snapping up real estate is a tradition. This place is perfect. The house is in good condition, only recently sold off after the owners died. The furnishings inside are nice—better than the frat house. There’s a large kitchen, a living room complete with TV and gaming consoles, and nice bedrooms upstairs. There’s a bunkhouse adjacent to the barn where the non-officer members will sleep for the next week. By not having the frat pay for a separate facility for Hell Week, there’s no discernable paper trail. All things Zeta Sig needs to keep our chapter legal while we carry out our traditions.

I stop by the kitchen to grab a beer out of the refrigerator and head up to my room. Knox and Royer can oversee the drama outside. I need to check in with my goat.

Swallowing half the beer, I enter my bedroom and take in the queen-sized bed and comfortable furniture. Since he’s president, Royer got the biggest room, but this one will work. Knox is next door, on the other side of a shared bathroom. I stop at my suitcase, unzipping it and rummaging under the clothes.

I barely hear the tapping on my door, but call out, “Come in.”

The door opens with a soft creak. “You wanted to see me?”

My fingers graze the wooden box at the bottom of the suitcase, and I grab it. “Yeah, I need you to do some work in here.”

Reagan swallows anxiously, the Adam’s apple noticeably missing from her throat, along with the telltale stubble that should shadow her chin at this stage of the day. She’s wearing baggy sweatpants that manage to make her look even skinnier and an oversized Whittmore hoodie.

“Close the door.”

She shuts it, and I note her stiff shoulders and trembling hands. She thinks I’m going to hurt her. The realization sends a warm spark down my belly. Control is a very powerful, intoxicating thing.

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