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“No clue. Just passing it along.”
Weird.
Not that Todd would need to see me on the day of his party. He’s always on my case, like I haven’t done this for him before. The guy’s going to be a hell of a micromanaging dickwad at his dad’s company, I’m sure.
Still, it eats at me through class, what he might need.
The clock chimes noon and I’m out the door.
If I hurry, I should be able to run to the frat house, grab a sandwich at the rec center, and make it to Communications. Then I can haul ass to the other six errands I have to do before setup starts. Getting there late means I’ll have to dodge shouting baseball caps and polos while they get warmed up for a rager.
Sometimes, I can’t believe they’re willing to pay me for doing all of this. But I guess I’ve never known what it’s like to have the kind of money that buys not having to mess with normal errands. Planning.
Hey, it makes me a buck.
Add to the fact that a lot of the guys and way more of their “guests” aren’t twenty-one yet, so somebody’s got to get the booze. Which raises the cost for my risk. It’s a very beneficial symptom of rich kid detachment, not having a clue how much stuff costs. To be fair, it’s taken me years to find all of my contacts, gain trust, and learn how to keep it all under the radar. Trust is more valuable than money most of the time.
Especially in Sanctum Harvard University’s little underworld.
My little underworld.
I've created this little pocket of people skills, provisions. And it's not just booze and parties. It's fake IDs for some, trading skills, writing papers for cash, some tutoring hookups, and the occasional test answer acquisition. Because I always know a guy. That’s the point. I get things done for people.
I’m really good at it.
Even if I do feel like I’m playing with fire too often. Which is exactly the feeling I get as I race across campus to Theta house. What could Todd need to see me about that couldn’t have just been a phone call? Text?
I catch too many eyes on me as I run down the length of the gym building. Yes, I have tits. They bounce. Soak it up, boys. A couple of guys in basketball jerseys yell something about my big ass, and I give them the finger without looking at them.
I hate being… bigger… sometimes.
A lot of people know who I am on campus, at least in rumor. And you’d think that would buy me a tiny bit of respect? Nope.
Douchebags will always be douchebags. Just like the guy I'm going to see about this party tonight. Guys like Todd whom I would never, ever date, and who would never date me except as a “pity lay”.
One of them said as much at one of my parties last year. He wound up with a Dixie cup shoved in his mouth and a black eye. They all thought I was pretty fucking cool for it at the time.
Not a wise choice in the long run. Risky.
I try not to resort to violence. Ever.
Especially dealing with jackass frat boys who’ve had too much to drink. They’re entitled enough when they're sober. Not to mention the fact that they all play sports and work out constantly. Any one of them could take my head off with a punch.
That’s what boobs are for, I guess. Distract. Defuse.
“Damn, fun bags, slow down!” One of the Thetas laughs as I hop up the steps, his buddies chuckling and giving him high-fives.
“Why should I? I hear you’re the fastest around, Five-Second Phil!” I whip back at him, jerking open the screen door. The cluster of jocks around him erupts in howls of laughter. Got him.
I try not to let that stuff bother me. Mostly because there’s nothing I can do about how I look.
I run. I work out. I dance.
And it’s painfully clear that I’ll never look like Rachel Marsden, Todd’s girlfriend, who’s giving me the death stare from the couch as I huff into the kitchen.
She’s fake tanned. Petite. Flat-chested, until she and her mom got matching boob jobs.
The gaggle of Barbies around her look like her clones. Every one of them has an ego the size of their daddy’s yacht.
