Sloth Page 3

  It happened last week, and I used up all my emergency, just-incase-Kennard-dies-suddenly stash.

  I guess I should be glad. I’m growing my client base. Instead, I feel anxious.

  I pick up my phone and scroll to “K.C.,” but I don’t dial. K.C. is this sketchy guy I met at a bar last year. When I get really low, I can buy a few ounces from him, but I don’t like to. He’s not like...cop sketchy. He’s more the looks-only-at-my-boobs kind of sketchy. Let’s just say I don’t want to be alone with him in a broken elevator.

  I rub my lipsticked lips together and decide I won’t call K.C. unless I get a surprise order tonight. At this point, almost all the girls in my sorority and our sister sororities know I deal, and so do some of their boyfriends, so I’ve got about a dozen frat clients. I also deal to some people from my classes. Add that to a handful of townie adults, plus my yoga instructor and a few guys at the ten-minute oil change place downtown, and I’ve got a pretty big client list. For a one-girl operation.

  I look once more at the digital clock on my desk, then grab my Kate Spade overnight bag—the one that looks like a big, straw purse—and dump its contents—a tube of toothpaste and some PJ pants—onto the floor. I grab the PJ pants and put them back in, because I just remembered these dumb jars always clank together. I add a sleeveless shirt and some running shorts to the bag, to keep the Mason jars from bumping each other as I move.

  Then I hustle out of my room, into the shared living area of the “officers’ suite.” It’s empty except for our leather couch and chair, the fluffy rug, the round coffee table. Because everyone else is already downstairs at chapter.

  Oops.

  I amble down the rubber-lined, hardwood stairs, moving from the top story of our four-columned antebellum house to the large parlor on the first story. I’ve found that when I’m late, moving fast makes me feel more stressed out. So I pretend I’m right on time and focus on the motion of my feet.

  When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear Milasy’s drawl from around the corner and confirm that the meeting has already started. I move through the foyer, through the small, square doorway, built at a time when no one gave a damn about an open floor plan, and get a straight-line view of Milasy and Steph, sitting on one of the antique sofas in the parlor. Their backs are pencil-straight, their ankles crossed. I stand behind the crowd of perfume-sprayed, lotion-slathered Tri Gams and try to paste an interested—or at least neutral—expression on my face. Milasy talks about our grades. Steph remind us (as she does every week) that ladies drink alcohol from plastic Solo cups instead of beer bottles or cans. Cassie tells us to prepare to vote on our Thanksgiving and Christmas charity events next week, and then she stands on her tiptoes and looks around the room for me.

  Her brown eyes meet mine, and we share a conspiratory smile. Cassie is Type-B, and more like me than Steph and Milasy. She’s the officer most likely to be late at any given time.

  I square my shoulders and project my voice, and tell the room full of Tri Gams they only have another week to pay first semester dues. After that, I sink back into myself and allow my mind to wander. Which it does, right back to my current read: a romance novel. Mmm.

  I remain in la-la land until my good friend Lora elbows me. I jump and apparently gasp, too, because a few girls in front of us turn around to see what’s up. When everyone has settled down again and I’ve had a few seconds to get over my embarrassing outburst, Lora leans over and whispers, “What’s in your bag, lady? Cake?” She wiggles her brows and grins.

  She knows what’s in the bag, but her comment reminds me: We’ve got a cakewalk right after this in the student center. Shit!

  How am I supposed to hand out my bud at an organized event—one where I’ll need to oversee the three girls who’ll be handling the cash boxes?

  That’s really annoying. I can’t believe I forgot. I rub my head. I didn’t even bring a freakin’ cake.

  After the meeting winds down—all the low-fat snacks have been eaten, all the lemonade lite sipped—I chat with Milasy, Steph, and Cassie. Nothing interesting. Just the usual business stuff that sometimes makes me wonder why I even joined a sorority. I’m reminded almost instantly, when I walk with some of my pot posse across campus, toward the William Harrison Memorial Student Center.

  On the long trek there, as we migrate across brick walkways and under giant, moss-strewn oaks, I manage to drop three Mason jars into three oversized purses, and receive three cash payments. In the chaos of everybody trying to fit through the glass doors on the front of the student center, a two-story brick eyesore from the seventies, I dole out two more jars and get two more wads of cash.

  I’m trying to strategize how to deliver the rest of my illicit goods when I step into the carpeted common room and stop in my tracks.

  There are guys here. Like...a lot of guys.

  I glance at Lora, and she arches her brows. “You don’t remember we’re doing this with Sig Alpha?”

  I chew my lower lip. “No, I did.”

  She elbows me. “Pants on fire. I can tell you’re surprised. Don’t worry, though. Harrison said Brennan was skipping.”

  I let a slow breath out and nod.

  Harrison is Lora’s boyfriend, and until the end of June, Brennan was mine. Both guys are Sig Alphas, but Harrison is the president. Meaning he’ll definitely be here.

  I’m glad Brennan won’t. Our breakup...sucked. So yeah.

  I give Lora a paste-on smile. “That’s good.”

  “The best,” she says, bumping my shoulder.

  Despite this first-floor common area being the most logical place to hold a cakewalk, we’re not cakewalking here because Milasy couldn’t book it. I can’t remember why, but the cakewalk is in a large study hall on the second floor. I’m pretty sure it’s near some bathrooms, plus a lot of little conference rooms, which works out perfectly for me.

  We ascend the stairs slowly, as Lora and a few of the other junior girls chat about the effectiveness of the Diva Cup. The yucky conversation ends when we reach the top of the stairs, walk between two giant ferns on either side of the staircase, and behold the sprawling study area.

  It’s got industrial mauve carpet and is normally cluttered with couches, recliners, and tables. Tonight, the furniture is pushed up against the gray cinderblock walls. A chunk of the floor is partitioned into masking-tape squares for the cakewalk. All around the squares are fold-out tables bearing cakes and refreshments.

  I make a beeline for the younger girls who’ll be working the cash boxes, and give them specific instructions for how I want them to keep track of everything.

  Then I walk around the bustling room, smiling and chatting like the biggest thing on my mind is how much money this dumb cakewalk makes. I’m also looking for Brennan, who indeed seems to have skipped tonight’s event. Thank the Lord.

  After a few minutes, I slip into the bathroom with two clients. I emerge with fresh lipstick, then chat with Steph about her disastrous calculus exam while the guys set up the sound system. I don’t really remember what a cakewalk entails: some sort of hop-scotch kind of thing and numbered slips of paper, plus a boom box. A quick look at the tables around the cakewalk floor reveals two dozen or more cakes, and I guess people think this is a cool pastime, because girls and guys from other sororities and frats start spilling into the room.

  I catch the gazes of my clients and begin subtly steering them into the bathroom or the conference rooms. Milasy is playing announcer, so she definitely doesn’t notice. I don’t think anyone else does, either. Sometimes I feel stares from the guys, but that’s normal, I tell myself. I’m wearing jeans that make my ass look awesome, and I’m newly single too.

  I take care of Jordan, Elizabeth, Julie, Forrest, Kelsey, Chloe, Ricci, Sarah, Molly, other Molly, Joanna, Anna Maria, Solena, Christy, and Neda, all in various conference rooms, before Lora and I go into the ladies’ room—not because the conference rooms are a bad place to do this, but because both she and I need to pee.

  “Yo
u making bank, girl?” she asks from the other side of a stall wall.

  “You know it,” I say.

  “You little twat.”

  “You are. Jealous,” I tack on.

  She snorts. “I don’t need that money.”

  True. Lora’s dad is a lumber tycoon, and on the school’s board of trustees.

  “You wish you were buying yourself Louboutins for Christmas like I am.”

  “I’ll steal my mom’s.” She giggles.

  “Or steal mine.”

  When Lora and I have washed our hands with the school’s citrus-scented soap and I’ve got her money added to the growing wad in the inside pocket of my bag, we latch arms and walk back out to cakewalk central.

  “Win a cake for me,” I tell her.

  “Good luck with your shit, girlie.”

  I watch blonde, pixie-sized Lora walk across the crowded room toward Harrison—a tall, dark-haired hottie who plays soccer for our school and has a complete, pervert obsession with taking pics of Lora’s ass and putting them on Tumblr.

  Harrison and I are still cool, I think, but I’ve noticed he doesn’t talk to me much since Brennan and I split, and when Lora hangs out with him, I’m never invited. I guess it makes sense, since I’d be a third wheel without Brennan, but it’s still kind of sad.

  I spot my next target, Megan, by a window that overlooks the quad, chatting in a group of junior and senior Sig Alphas. I walk up behind her, smack her butt, and hiss into her ear: “Room one-A in five.”

  She giggles as she walks through the door seven minutes later. “I feel like I’m on a covert mission!”

  I smile. “You are.”

  She gets her weed, I get my money, and then I have to talk down her nerves for a full two minutes.

  “There’re so many people here! Next time I want you to drop it off at my room again like last time....”

  I slip out a minute after her and repeat my covert message to Katy, who wraps her arm around my waist and tells me I look hot in my jeans.

  “I’m not waiting five,” she tells me. “I’ll go with you now, sistah.”

  So she does, and takes her Mason jar without a lot of fuss, probably owing to her status as the provost’s daughter. Also, Katy’s older sister, Belle, was expelled from school last spring semester for trying to bribe a professor with a blow job, so I think Katy figures nothing she does could top that.

  The last person I have to slip away with is Foster. I forgot her earlier, but I always bring an extra Mason jar for that very reason. I text Foster to meet me in conference room 1B. I slip into the small room, filled with faux wood tables, and sink down into one of the plastic chairs surrounding them. I pull open the ‘notes’ feature on my iPhone and confirm that I’ve gotten everyone but Amber, Hannah, and Lindsey, all of whom I can catch on the walk back to the house.

  The bit with Foster is...not fast. She hangs around forever telling me about how much weight she’s gained since she started smoking pot again. She pulls a can of Sprite out of her purse and holds it out to me like it’s a poisonous snake.

  “It’s my weakness. Take it! It’ll go straight to my thighs.”

  I laugh, but take it. “Foster, it’s a beverage.”

  “One with corn syrup!”

  I shrug and pop the top as she elbows her way out the door. In the quiet of the little room, I take a minute for myself: to sip the Sprite and thumb through my overnight bag.

  One minute, I’m peering into one of my remaining Mason jars, wondering if I over-measured. The next, I’m blinking into the dark.

  “Ummm...huh?”

  When the room remains pitch-black, I slide my arm into the straps of my bag and stand up slowly. Must be a power-outage. “Shit.”

  I walk slowly toward the door, and when I’m almost there, my face bounces off of something hard.

  The lights flick on, shocking my eyes so I can’t see at first. I blink a few times—and find myself staring at a wide, male chest.

  TWO

  Cleo

  One step back, and the chest becomes a full-fledged male. Not just any male, but Kellan fucking Walsh.

  Motherfucker.

  Fuck shit.

  Shit fuck.

  This is bad, like really, really bad.

  Kellan Walsh is the Lex Luthor of Cleoland—as well as the golden boy of Chattahoochee College.

  He drives a jet black Escalade. He has a Crest-white smile. He dyes his hair with gold dust. Okay, maybe not really, but it looks that way, especially in the sun. When he walks, he swaggers. When he touches a girl’s arm at a party or a bar, he puts a spell on her. I’ve seen it happen with my own two eyes.

  Take Katy, for example. First weekend back-to-school, at a party, she was being her normal self—in Katy’s case, this meant guzzling her second “goldfish bowl” martini, swinging her hips around like Elvis, moving her wide, swimmer’s shoulders to a Lady Gaga dance remix, and singing off-key. Then Kellan Walsh showed up.

  He was dressed to the nines, because that’s the only way Kellan Walsh dresses. I think that night he was wearing slacks and an expensive-looking button-up, with the sleeves rolled up to show off his muscular forearms. He looked like some kind of...lion, or tiger. Maybe a rare yellow leopard. He tipped his head at Katy, and in five minutes—FIVE MINUTES FLAT, I’m telling you—she’d climbed into the Sexcalade with him.

  He took her to a hotel. Not to his room at the frat house, but a hotel, as if she was a hooker.

  That alone wouldn’t be cause for concern, just revulsion. But, in addition to being campus playboy and soccer player extraordinaire, Kellan Walsh is also our school’s SGA president. Which means he has a lot of influence over my fate as a student here.

  He’s also a champion of our campus’ zero tolerance drug policy.

  Yeahhhh.

  As my eyes adjust to the light he’s just flipped on, I take another small step back and run my gaze up and down him. Perfectly put together. Of course. Navy slacks and a pale pink Polo hug his body like...well, clothes draped over the world’s most flawless body. I’m a back and shoulders girl, and shit, he’s wide. I usually don’t get this close to him but...gawd. His soft cotton shirt is stretching to fit across the width of him.

  My eyes trail down his ripped chest and gawk at the width difference between his shoulders and his hips. His hips are square and sharp, delectable. I know from seeing him in soccer shorts that behind them, there’s a nice, taut ass. Underneath his slacks are muscled thighs. And in between his legs...at games, when he runs...

  I swallow and tug my gaze up to his face. His blue eyes demand my attention first. They’re gorgeous—the color of deep ocean water. Looking at me, they seem to see everything; they’re the eyes of a demigod, peering into my soul. I take in the rest of his face: the faintly feline shape of his high cheekbones; his heavenly lips, which beg to be bitten; the smooth line of his jaw; his healthy tan. He definitely looks angelic. Like an angel who would rip your panties with the strength of his immortal hands.

  Oh, God.

  My eyes flit up again, needing to get away from that face of his, and run into his wavy-messy blond hair.

  I grit my teeth and step away.

  His eyes, on mine, are shrewd. They track me as I move. My pulse quickens—and quickens more, and What the hell is wrong with you Cleo!?

  I lift my bag up my shoulder and try to make my face like Mandy, a sophomore Tri Gam who is the most cliché sorority girl I’ve ever known: wide-eyed and wondering, just an innocent girl startled by Kellan’s male antics. He sneaked into the room when I wasn’t paying attention! He flipped the light switch and I was like OMGz!

  But did he sneak in? I didn’t hear the door open or close. Was he in here the whole time?

  My pulse kicks up a notch.

  He seems too close. I take another step back. Then I glare at him for good measure.

  You’re doing nothing wrong, Cleo! You’re a liberator. Fight big pharma... Weed is medicine! A more relaxed student population is go
od for everyone! Rah rah rah!

  I wrap my fingers around the thin straps of my bag and give him a skeptical frown. What the hell is he doing in here?

  “Were you spying on me?” I look him over once more, this time focusing more on his clothes than his delectable body. The slacks look tailor-made. The pink dress shirt is definitely straining across his shoulders.

  As if he can read my lustful thoughts and wants to taunt me, he steps closer. His gaze hardens. Another step, and I can see the sexy stubble on his face. A third step, and he’s close enough for me to smell his cinnamony breath. He folds his arms over his chest and breaks the silence with a voice like low thunder. “I think a better question is, what are you doing in here, Miss Whatley?”

  I blink a few times, mostly because that voice is seriously panty-melting. No need for him to know I think so, though, so I toss my long, brown hair over my shoulder and fix him with a perfectly peeved stare. “What does it look like? I was taking a break in here, minding my own business, and you popped up! Were you spying on me? Cause that’s creepy.”

  “Minding your business, huh?” He tucks his lips down into a scowly, frowny, judgy look. He arches his brows. “Mind if I take a look in that bag?”

  My heart forgets its rhythm. “What?” I swallow. “Is that a joke?”

  I take a step back and try to think fast. To look outraged. To treat him like the creep he clearly is. “Of course I’m not letting you look in my purse.” I shift my shoulder so the purse is more behind me. “I can’t believe you would ask.”

  I look him up and down, hoping to find him lacking in some way—but he’s flawless. Long legs with strong thighs evident through the fabric of his pants, abs so flat I could bounce a penny off them, shoulders that seem three times as wide as mine. And his face. I could look at it all day. Scratch that, I could glare at it all day.

  “This whole thing is totally creeping me out, Walsh.”

  His face is tight and serious. His voice is a menacing purr. “There’s a reason that I’m asking, Whatley.”

  “What’s that?” I hold my head up high and pull out a look I used a lot in high school: the you-can-talk-shit-about-me-but-I-don’t-care-because-I’m-better-than-you special. Behind the look, my head is spinning. I watch his lips move, focusing more on them than on his words.