Page 42 of Beg for It
“Fine, fine.” She cuts me with a side-eye that is tinged with annoyance. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s cool. It’s not like I’m your bestie or anything.”
I internally groan with guilt, hating that I am letting her down. When we were growing up, she’d always twist her words to make me feel bad if I wasn’t treating her like my number one. At the same time, I know that if I told Michelle the truth, shewould just be full of judgement. She’d look at me like I’d grown a second head, and that disgusted dismissal would be a pain way worse than the one right now.
“I love you,” I coo, giving her my pageant princess smile. It always seems to placate her to an extent.
She lets out a huff through her nose, swinging her attention back to the boys and immediately forgetting my existence. “Brett, baby, be careful!” She releases our linked elbows and sprints the last hundred feet to where Brett is being lifted by two of his ex-football buddies.
Tess lets out a half laugh, closing the gap Michelle left behind. “Who do you think is going to win?”
“Brett.”
I have no doubt that guy could chug his entire body weight in beer without blinking. D’Andre would give him a run for his money, but he cares a lot more about keeping his prime athlete body in shape.
We all stand around the guys and cheer as David pops out from God knows where and starts the countdown, reffing the competition as he always seems to do. As soon as he hits one, the guys start chugging through their tubes. It’s a complete mess of shouts and whoops. I wouldn’t do this in a million years, but it doesn’t stop me from joining in with all the infectious chanting.
D’Andre taps the side of the kegger, and the two dudes holding up his legs help bring him down to his feet. He wipes his mouth on his forearm with a grunt.
Brett finishes a minute later, punching a fist in the air as he yells, “Fucking crushed it.”
D’Andre rolls his eyes before he punches Brett in the shoulder. “You’re a fucking beast, man.”
I honestly don’t know how they’re still standing with all that alcohol in them. I’ve only been at the party for a few hours, but they’ve been here all night. It is both concerning and impressive.
“Oh, shit. There’s Riley.” Brett gestures behind me swiping his finger across the crowd. “Who wants to challenge Riley Manning to a keg stand?” The question lingers in the air for a few seconds, everyone clearly aware that their odds of beating him are slim. “Five hundred dollars if you beat him.”
The monetary bribe seems to do the trick as a handful of drunk dudes quickly volunteer.
My skin pebbles with dreaded anticipation. I can feel him getting closer, a chill working its way up my spine. My gut screams for me to run, but my legs don’t seem to get the message. My self-preservation from earlier has decided to take a nap. I’m stuck, unmoving, a lamb waiting for the slaughter.
“Blair.” Riley’s growl rumbles against my bones as his hand latches onto my shoulder and spins me around. “What the actual fuck, you slut?”
Silence.
All the shouting, cheering, and drunken jesting from our crowd disappear in an instant at his cruel words.
“What the hell, Riley. What are you doing?” Michelle squeezes up to my side and bats at his hand, but it does nothing.
“Yo, bro, the kegger—whoa, what happened to your face?” Brett positions himself between Riley and me, reaching up to turn his friend’s face to the side, giving us all a clear view of the giant bruise blooming at his temple.
Ah, crap.
Part of me is a little relieved that it’s just a head wound and not, like, five missing fingers.
“Get off.” Riley slaps his hand away, relinquishing his hold on my shoulder in the process. I manage to take a step back, but that’s all I get before his attention returns to me. “I want names, Blair. Who the fuck are they?”
They?
I don’t know who he is talking about. There is just Phantom. But that wouldn’t be a good enough answer. Not when he is already in this hyped state.
“Dude, what’re you on about?” D’Andre packs into our makeshift circle, Tess and David not far behind.
“Some fucking psycho knocked me out.”
There’s a beat.
“What?” Brett barks out a laugh. “Yeah, right. Only someone with a death wish would think about trying to fuck with us.”
“Does this look like I’m fucking kidding?” He points back to the bruise. “Guy fucking hit me with a crowbar or some shit, and next thing I know, I’m waking up—” He cuts himself off.
