The Revenge Pact Read online

  I’m the president of Kappa and alternate between spending time here and at the frat house. A huff comes from me. I used to crash in my room there on and off (I get a free one since I’m an officer), but not since she appeared on the scene.

  Hollis straightens up from his slouch and wipes at the chocolate crumbs around his mouth. “Holy shit…” His voice rises. “Did Crazy Carl…kiss me?”

  Crew, who was scrolling on his phone, holds up his cell and makes a kissy noise. “A big ol’ smooch on the cheek. I have a pic to prove it.”

  “Post that and you die.” Hollis scrubs his face. “I’m never drinking again.”

  My chest feels tight again as I watch them.

  I twist my ring, my head tumbling as Mom’s words dance around in my head.

  Slay your demons.

  The idea’s been pricking at me ever since I got in the shower. It’s where I do my best thinking. If I get ramped up, I strip down and let the water wash over me. The small space, steam, and being naked help my mind focus. I average about three showers a day, morning, afternoon, and night. My grades might be shit, but I’m quite possibly the cleanest person at Braxton. This is also why I’m constantly out of laundry.

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  The guys look at me. Part fear, part anticipation.

  “Don’t look so freaked out,” I drawl.

  Hollis pops a second Ding Dong in his mouth. “We’ve seen your thinking. Your ideas can be a lot of work.”

  “You’re still pissy about the pie-throwing contest at the Kappa house,” I say. “It raised a shit ton of money. Sorry you took a lot of cream in the face, Hollis.”

  He groans. “I can’t even look at pie without flinching. You know I love sweets.”

  “You volunteered,” Crew reminds him.

  Hollis points at me. “He convinced me! He said there’d be hot girls in bikinis throwing pie. You forgot to mention there’d also be a line of Pikes and ATOs who’d want a piece of me. I had black eyes for a week.”

  Crew smirks. “River could convince a nun to give up her panties.”

  “Why would I when I have an entire frat to mess with,” I say on a laugh as I shift on my feet, adjusting my shoulders, fidgeting. “Anyway…today’s Monday, and even though our season is over, it’s a fresh start. There’s a new year coming, and I need something, not really a resolution, but…” I pause, mulling it over in my head. “I need to figure out my future. I’m at a crossroads.”

  “Feeling the same,” Crew mutters.

  “Dude,” comes from Hollis. “It’s too early to discuss heavy shit.”

  We laugh.

  Later, after telling them bye, I step off the porch and my fingers jiggle my keys, startling the hawk from his tree. He buzzes past me as he flies across the yard. Fly on, man. Find a hot bird babe and have some little bird babies.

  Then I’m down a rabbit hole wondering if hawks mate for life.

  I get in the truck and crank it.

  I know what my monsters are.

  I can’t wave a magic wand and cure Mom.

  I can’t go back in time and fix a disastrous football season.

  I can’t fix my learning issues.

  But…

  I can pass this class.

  I can stop thinking about that girl in my class. She makes my skin tighten, the hair on my arms rise. Even my scalp does weird things when I see her.

  I hate that feeling. It goes against everything I believe about brotherhood. It’s disloyal as shit, and I want to scrub it off my skin.

  She doesn’t belong to me.

  She loves him.

  My friend. My frat brother.

  My hands clench the steering wheel.

  “You do not exist, Anastasia Bailey. You. Are. No. One. To. Me.”

  Yeah.

  Been saying that since the moment I saw her.

  Fighting the pull of my thoughts, I stare down at the inked letters on both sets of fingers that spell THREE under the knuckles. It’s my jersey number and Dad’s. It represents the family triad: man, woman, child; it’s birth, love, and death.

  I focus on three things I’m grateful for: despite my learning issues, my IQ is higher than the norm (shocker); I have the frat; and I have my team.

  I don’t have her.

  But it’s enough.

  Right?

  2

  ANA! I got my email acceptance to Harvard! I’m going to the best law school in the country! I had to tell you first!!!!! is the text from Donovan as I trudge up the steps of the Wyler Humanities Building.

  Happiness flares bright at my boyfriend’s news. I smile at his overuse of exclamations. He must be ecstatic. I come to an abrupt stop and let out a whoop as I punch a victorious fist at the sky. Good for him!

  A tall, muscular guy in a purple shirt bumps into me and mutters something under his breath as his arm brushes against mine. Tingles dance down my spine. Without looking up, I murmur “Sorry” to his back as I let my backpack fall to the steps and type out a response.

  I knew you had it from day one! I end it with several heart emojis. I’m about to send another text suggesting we meet up when one comes from him.

  Have you gotten your email yet?

  Elation for him takes a nosedive as unease curls around me, thick and heavy. My throat tightens as if needles are pricking it. We applied to Harvard Law on the same day, both of our laptops on our knees as we sat on his bed at the Kappa house and simultaneously pushed the button. He made a big production out of it, giving me a kiss for luck afterward. He even bought us matching crimson and black Harvard shirts he ordered online. That shirt now hangs in my closet, taunting me.

  My LSAT score is in the top ten percent of the country, but I don’t have the volunteer activities, the self-made charity foundations, or the social clubs. Between my classes and waiting tables, I barely have time to date Donovan.

  He’s been planning for Harvard since he enrolled at Braxton College. His freshman year he established a charity to donate tennis shoes to needy children in Honduras. Genius. He invested five grand into the website, rented a storage facility, hired a small crew to ship them out, all while raising money for sponsors. Shoes for Children has been going strong for three and a half years. There’s no telling how much of his own money he’s put into it. Because his family is wealthy, I remind myself. They’re Harvard alumni. That had to have helped his application.

  Ana? You there?

  A lump of cement swirls in my gut as I stare at his words.

  My rejection email came five days ago. Not even waitlisted.

  My official letter arrived the next day, like I needed physical confirmation of being a reject. A pit of emptiness pulls at me, and I shove it away before its tentacles can dig too deep.

  “You couldn’t afford Harvard anyway,” I mutter under my breath. With tuition and living expenses, the grand total came to ninety-eight thousand dollars a year. My heart dips at the thought of paying off an almost-half-a-million-dollar degree. If it wasn’t for my scholarship at Braxton, I’d never be able to pay the fifty grand a year here.

  Ana?

  I take a big breath, ignoring the tightening of my chest. Of course I’m happy for Donovan. Harvard is his dream.

  No word yet, I reply, adding a thumbs-up emoji.

  I should tell him. I really should.

  You’ll get in. I just know it. Wish I could see you tonight to celebrate, but I’ll be deep in a research paper at the library. Toga party Friday?

  I blink. Really? That’s five days from now. Surely he wants to see me before then? I must be misunderstanding him.

  It’s just…

  We didn’t see each other this weekend because he drove to Atlanta to see his family—without me—which is absolutely cool. I had to work at The Truth Is Out There. “And his parents think you’re a gold digger,” I say to myself.

  So. Yeah.

  His family has generational wealth, and while I’m not destitute, I didn’t grow up with Rembrandts o
n the wall either. This past summer I was there for his grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary gala. The place settings at the table featured countless plates, forks, spoons, and crystal glasses. The flower arrangements were three feet tall. I legit had to look around them to see Donovan—who wasn’t sitting next to me but across the table next to an eligible girl from his parent’s circle of friends. My retro yellow velvet dress didn’t fit in with the black cocktail dresses the other women wore. My black thigh-high heeled boots were cheap pleather. My lavender hair made everyone squint.

  His grandmother passed me in the hall before dinner, raked her eyes over me, and curled her lip. Dear, the catering staff stays in the kitchen, and shouldn’t you pull your hair up and wear something more appropriate? Then she asked me to refresh her champagne.

  The socialite who sat next to me during dinner went on and on about her daughter’s debutante ball while the man on the other side of me (her husband) rested his hand on my back every time he mentioned one of his vacation homes or his investment portfolio, which was a lot. Donovan wouldn’t meet my gaze across the table, and an anxious feeling began to grow and grow and grow. Short story: I drank a little too much champagne, ate tiramisu with an oyster fork, then asked for A.1. Steak Sauce for my filet.

  You’d have thought I murdered someone the way his mom gaped at me.

  Cold December wind whips my hair around my face, obscuring my view as I grip my phone. My shoulders slump as my fingers hover over my cell, waiting for a text from him—the one he needs to send right freaking now.

  I wait a full minute. Crickets.

  I jerk up my backpack and walk.

  He didn’t mention my birthday.

  Stomping up the steps, I chew on my bottom lip as I wrestle with my emotions. He is forgetful. On top of his classes and volunteer work, he’s also the vice president of the Kappa fraternity.

  It’s fine, I rationalize. He just got in from a weekend out of town, saw he got into Harvard, and that’s all he’s thinking about.

  Maybe he’s planning something and wants to surprise me later. I wince. He really isn’t a surprise kind of guy—except for our meet cute. I soften as I recall that night in the library.

  He was with his fraternity brothers at a table next to mine, his brown eyes behind a pair of modern black frames as he checked me out. When I left my table to find a book, I came back to find a note on my copy of The Outsiders.

  I have his message memorized.

  * * *

  ‘You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.’

  Let me introduce myself. I’m your next boyfriend. Yeah, let that horrible come-on line sink in, but the sentiment is sincere. Cross my heart and hope to die—not really, but you know what I mean.

  There are three things about you that caught my attention. You smell like sunshine, your hair needs my hands in it, and I’ll be honest… I dig your kickass shoes. Those sparkly Chucks are a conversation starter.

  Where are you from?

  Are you new here?

  What are you doing after this?

  Please tell me you’re single.

  Also… I’m not a serial killer.

  Or an alien. (People in Walker really dig that stuff.)

  Or a player.

  Or a douchebag.

  Or a dick.

  Wait? Are those last three kind of all the same thing? Maybe? Anyway…

  I’m just the guy in front of you, at a table in the library, baring his soul.

  I’ll wait for you outside when the library closes. If you pack up and leave now, I’ll know it’s a no.

  Your first reaction to this note may be to run as far away as you can, but you only live once and what do you have to lose?

  Fate has a way of bringing people together, and maybe we’re meant to be. Give me a chance to prove I’m much better in person than on paper. I haven’t seen you smile and I want to.

  Kappa Boy (at the table across from you)

  * * *

  When I picked up the messily scrawled message to study it, I looked over and two of the three guys at the Kappa table froze.

  Had to be from one of them.

  The author of the note noticed that I didn’t smile. As a transfer student, I was down that night, worried about credit card debt and making friends, all while trying to adjust to a big university from online classes.

  Was the note cheesy, ridiculous, and over the top? Oh yeah.

  But…

  It was the Gone with the Wind quote that sealed the deal.

  A guy who’s read one of my favorite books? Hello, handsome.

  Plus, it was funny in a charming way that made me laugh, as if he had word vomit and wrote out random thoughts.

  My eyes flitted to them. These three guys were hot in different ways, each with hard bodies like they worked out twenty-four seven, their black and gold Kappa shirts tight on their chests.

  I’d heard they were the most popular frat on campus, all the rich guys and superstar athletes. But why would one of them be interested in me? That night, my pale face was devoid of makeup and my hair was in disastrous topknot shaped like a tornado. I wore my big white glasses, a pair of gray tie-dyed leggings, and a pink Nirvana hoodie. In other words, a hot mess without the hot.

  I studied them as covertly as possible with my head bent, my eyes scanning over them. There was the sandy hair and glasses guy (Donovan), another male with the most devastatingly perfect face I’d ever seen, and a blond-haired fellow who was half-asleep.

  I narrowed it down to either Glasses or Perfect Guy. Both of them openly stared as I clutched the note.

  My body liked Perfect Guy—he had tattoos and his lips were to die for—but he made my stomach jumpy. Earlier in the night, I’d watched a stream of sorority girls fawn over him when he dropped his pen. He was out of my league. Too hot. Too popular.

  In the end, I waited until the bell pinged that the library was closing. The guys stood up and left. Anxious yet excited about which one of them it was, I gave them five minutes.

  When I walked out of the library—pepper spray in hand because a girl has to be careful—Glasses (Donovan) was the one sitting at the fountain in the courtyard with a huge smile on his face. He rushed up to me and grabbed my hands. “You are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

  It was so not true, but I laughed anyway, and we’ve been together ever since. We became friends first, then lovers.

  Funny. I wish he’d leave more notes like that.

  “But he doesn’t,” I mutter loudly. A passing student starts and gives me side-eye.

  “Yes, I talk to myself,” I say to her back. “It was a lonely childhood.”

  Warm air hits me as I walk into the lobby and dash for the elevator. I’m late. I groan knowing I’ll have to walk into Dr. Whitman’s lecture while he’s talking. The man is vicious.

  I push the button for the elevator then the air changes behind me, crackling. My shoulders stiffen. There’s only one person in the world who makes the hair on my nape rise. Him. And by him, I mean that egotistical bad boy who thinks he’s God’s gift. River Tate—AKA Perfect Guy from the night I met Donovan.

  Ah! He was the guy who bumped into me on the steps. Should have known. It’s happened before, a slight bump here, a brush there. I never see it coming, but oh yeah, I always feel the effects.

  Neither of us speaks as the doors slide open, but I can feel the disdain in his gaze right between my shoulder blades. I step in and slowly turn around. Yep! There he is, all six feet four inches of broad-shouldered hot college boy wearing a purple Braxton Badgers shirt that’s sculpted to his chest, clinging to his muscled arms. Unfortunately, the color also makes his eyes pop and complements his skin tone. And the hair? Ugh. It’s thick and dark and perfectly messy as if he just came from a blowout at the salon. The color is a deep mahogany with pops of gold from the sun, and it frames his face, accentuating high cheekbones and a square chin. His body is built and massive, a gladiator with legs for miles.
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  He. Is. Devastating.

  Yes, I’ve noticed.

  I can look.

  A person can appreciate art from the heavens.

  Sunshine is pretty too. It also burns your eyes.

  “Well played, God, well played,” I murmur under my breath, barely audible. “He has a fan club devoted entirely to his lips, but you could have made him kind to go along with it. Hey, maybe you have a plan for him, I don’t know. Whatever. I’m not judging. I leave that to you.”

  He’s talking on his phone, his lips quirked up as his deep voice rumbles. “Yeah. I’ll bring you something special, baby girl.”

  Gag.

  Without acknowledging me, he laughs at the reply on the other end, the sound husky and deep. “Mhmm, I got your little gift. I smile every time I look at it.”

  Probably a mirror.

  He smiles into the phone, a dimple popping on the side of his jaw.

  It doesn’t affect me at all.

  Nothing about him makes me swoon.

  He tips his head back to stare at the ceiling. “You want a big one?” He chuckles. “Why am I not surprised? I always deliver what you want, don’t I?”

  Get a room!

  I clear my throat and send him a glare—which he doesn’t notice because he isn’t looking at me.

  His voice lowers. “I’ve got class. I’ll see you soon, baby girl.” He makes a kissy noise into the phone, taps end, and tucks it in his jeans.

  His eyes flit to me then slide away as he stares at the ground. He whistles to himself, seeming lost in thought and annoyingly happy.

  I slap the button for the sixth floor. Lord knows he won’t—even though we’re going to the same class. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, it’s the same scenario. I get on the elevator and he follows. We never speak. But, oh the tension is thick. On my side. He barely notices.

  Besides being the star wide receiver for Braxton, he’s the Kappa president. You’d think he’d be friendly to me since I date Donovan and he was there for our meet cute, but River goes out of his way to avoid me. On the first day of class, he rushed in late with his head bent as he sat down next to me. He looked over, met my gaze, murmured Oops, can’t do it, then promptly rose up and walked to another desk five rows behind me. I had to discreetly sniff my pits.