“Any chance I can get you to drop off something for Crosbie? He needs it first thing tomorrow, but I’m not heading there today.”
It’s like, fifteen minutes from here to the Frat Farm, but whatever. It’s on my way. “Sure,” I say. “But you’ll have to give me the address.” This part is true—I know Crosbie lives in a frat house, but not which one. They’re all the same in the dark.
“Thanks.” He hops off the counter and jogs into his room as I try not to ogle the shifting muscles in his back. He returns a second later carrying a box with a familiar shoe company logo. “Sneakers,” he explains. “Special order. A guy I know works at the store and Crosbie’s been waiting for these forever.”
“A shoe guy,” I say, studying the box. “Who knew?” When I think of Crosbie Lucas—and to be fair, it’s not often that I do—I think of three things: loud, muscles, and Crosbabes. Only one of those things floats my boat, and it’s not enough to make up for the other two.
Kellan shakes his head. “Don’t get him talking about shoes, he’ll never stop. And no matter what, don’t let him convince you to participate in any magic tricks. You’ll never get out alive.”
Illusions, I think. Don’t participate in any illusions. “Duly noted,” I say. Then, for some reason, I salute.
Kellan stares at me for a second, then wrinkles up his nose and lets loose with a heartfelt belly laugh. And by belly laugh, I mean six-pack laugh, because that thing ripples and shifts in a way that does something to my own stomach and a certain spot beneath it.
*
Twenty minutes later I’m leaning my bike against the front stoop of the Alpha Sigma Phi frat house. It’s a peeling green Victorian on a shady, tree-lined street of similar houses painted in muted and respectable earth tones. Because it’s the day before classes start, things on the Frat Farm are relatively tame—guys are moving in, there are several parents hanging around, and everyone’s still on their best behavior.
Alpha Sigma Phi is quiet, the front door closed, a large potted plant blooming cheerfully beneath the mailbox. It’s the kind of plant that says “Trust us, mom—your son’s in good hands!” The kind of plant that’ll be dead a week from now.
I ring the bell and hear it chime inside, and a few seconds later the door opens to reveal a tall, thin black guy wearing a suit and tie and a nametag that says “My name is Dane.” He does a double take when he sees me, and I realize they’re expecting new roommates and are hoping to make a good impression on the parents. This is positive news for me—Alpha Sigma Phi is aptly named. The guys are all athletes and take the “Alpha” part of their title very seriously, each one determined to be the man of the house. If they’re still in “impress mom” mode, I’m unlikely to stumble into an orgy.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” He glances at the box in my hand.
“Does Crosbie Lucas live here?”
“Oh.” Dane smiles and nods knowingly. “Yeah, yeah. He lives here. Right up there.” He steps aside to reveal a large staircase leading to the second floor. “Go ahead. Do your thing.”
I blink. Flannel, jeans, and one o’clock on a Monday? There’s nothing sexy or suggestive about me. “I don’t need to go upstairs,” I say, suddenly a little less confident I won’t see anything I can’t unsee. The last thing I need is to walk in on Crosbie and his newest Crosbabe. I thrust the paper bag holding the shoebox toward Dane. “Could you just give him this? It’s from—”
“Tell him yourself,” he says. “I’m not going to be responsible for whatever ‘gift’ you brought for the guy.”
“It’s not a gift—”
But Dane’s already walking away. So much for best behavior.
I consider just leaving the bag inside the door and asking Kellan to call Crosbie and tell him it’s there, but I think about how irresponsible frat houses are and figure I’ll just hurry upstairs, find his room, cover my eyes and knock on the door. No chance for any sort of miscommunication or awkward encounter.
Okay. Enough stalling. I have to be at work in forty minutes, and I left early so I’d have a bit of time to amble around town while it was still quiet. Because it’s Labor Day and everybody’s busy moving in and preparing for class, the small downtown will be mostly empty, just a few shops and restaurants open for locals. Quiet solitary walks—how’s that for rebellion, Kellan?
I wipe my sneakers on the welcome mat—I expect this mat will go the way of the plant—and climb the old wooden staircase to the upper level. Last year the guys’ rooms had names on them, and this year is no different. Though without blaring dance music, a hundred writhing bodies, and sticky splashes of alcohol on the floor, it’s nothing like my past experiences.