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Babe
Author: Angel Lawson

1

 

 

Wade

 

“Aww, fuck.”

I will never drink again.

Never, I swear to myself, flipping down on my stomach and digging my face into the cracked leather of the couch. The muffled voices from the next room is what woke me up in the first place. I try to tune them out in hopes that sleep will claim me again. I’d rather sleep through most of my hangover than deal with the cotton mouth, the pounding headache, and the general feeling of nausea that makes every movement painful.

The voices are still going strong but it’s not the noise that makes it impossible to go back to sleep, it’s my bladder that’s telling me a trip to the bathroom is in order. I do my best to ignore it, to slip back to the clutches of sleep, but nope. My bladder is a fucking asshole.

Fine. I drag my body off the couch, prepared to relieve myself and then try to make it upstairs to my room, away from the incessant chatter that’s decided to take permanent residence in the foyer.

Squelch.

Son-of-a—there’s something soft and gooey on the hardwoods. Please don’t be vomit.

If the voices, my bladder, and the nausea building in my chest didn’t confirm that any more sleep was out of the question, looking down at my feet did. White ooze squeezes between my toes.

Due to the waft of mint, it must be toothpaste. Thank god, because I can tell you for a fact that all the other options that immediately came to my mind were a million times more disgusting.

Fully awake now, I take in the utter devastation in the wake of last night’s party. The large living room of the Gamma house looks like it has been ravaged by a hurricane. A hurricane of mother-fuckers, that is. Empty solo cups are strewn all over the hardwood floor; glass shards are scattered around the long table that served as a bar last night. A pool of…something…oozes toward the fireplace. The heavy curtains that cover the full-length windows that lead into our backyard are askew, and the curtain rod that kept them up has been half ripped off the wall.

Jesus Christ.

I don’t remember a lot from last night’s party but by the look of the living room, it must’ve been fucking EPIC.

I spot Raines passed out on another couch, snoring loudly with his mouth wide open, and I roll my eyes at the sight of the dicks that someone drew all over his face in black permanent marker. It’d be funny if he wasn’t such an easy mark—probably passed out before the first keg went dry. I pat my pockets, searching for my phone, because you never know when you need a little leverage. Lately, I’ve seen him drunk, or high, or both more than I care to admit. I love to party like the next person, but if I’ve been debating about staging an intervention about his excess, the dude’s definitely got a problem. But that’s not my most urgent problem right now, Raines's problem will still be here later. I need to go to the bathroom and then face plant on my bed upstairs, I think, as the voices in the foyer grow more agitated.

I take another look around the room, not looking forward to the cleaning up. Typically, we’d have some pledges do the dirty work, but school let out a week ago and it’s just a skeleton crew hanging around at this point. What I’d give to hand them a toothbrush and have them scrub the house top to bottom with toothbrushes. It never gets old, seriously.

But it’s not really a concern of mine, I think, stepping over a lacy pink thong. If the brothers aren’t up to the clean-up, I’m more than happy to pay someone to do it. Maybe I’ll try that ‘Naked Maids’ website. Two birds, one stone.

“Baa, baa!”

Motherfuck—is that a goat? I jump halfway out of my skin, then look around in search of the source of the bleating, thinking that nothing could really surprise me at this point. The Gamma parties have become legendary on campus, and no excess or crazy prank is too much for our fraternity.

“Baa, baa!” I follow the noise and I realize with a sigh of relief that it’s coming from Archer’s pocket. I kick him in the leg, jolting him awake. “Turn off your damned phone,” I mutter, walking past.

“Shut up,” he says, rolling over, not opening his eyes. He lost his shirt at some point during the night, probably reenacting some heroic lacrosse moment. Girls fall for his sharp jaw, chiseled body, and confident nature, completely unaware he’s a narcissist with a wicked mean streak. Even I know better than to cross him first thing in the morning.

I’m about to walk outside on the patio where I see another brother passed out on a lounge chair in nothing but his underwear, but the voices I’d heard earlier become more agitated and draw closer.

I turn just in time to see Tripp, Gamma president, step into the living room with Dean Walters. The Dean looks rightfully horrified at the scene in front of him. Tripp? Well the smug smirk on his face doesn’t inspire confidence. His gaze zeroes in on me and when our eyes meet, I know that I’ll need a rain check on my plans of going back to sleep. This isn’t good. If school is over, why is the motherfucking Dean in our living room? And why does Tripp looks like the fucking cat that got the canary?

“Wade,” Tripp says, spotting me. “You know Dean Walters, right?”

Fuck. This isn’t good at all. Tripp was supposed to be in New York starting his internship with one of those big investment banks. Which is exactly why we had the post-post-graduation party in the first place—to celebrate his tight ass being five hundred miles away. There’s no way that receiving a visit from the dean of students could be for a good reason. Maybe he’ll buy that we were robbed? I avoid meeting the administrator’s gaze, thinking about an explanation for the devastation that surrounds me. Anything better than ‘we let things get a little out of hand.’

“Sure,” I reply, offering my hand. I may be a hellraiser, but my mother raised me right. “A pleasure.”

Dean Walter simply looks at my hand, then down to my foot covered in white toothpaste, and then back up again. I couldn’t possibly miss the disgust on his face. He doesn’t shake my hand. Ok, so this is gonna be even less fun than I thought.

“I was just explaining to the dean that you were the ‘master of ceremonies’ of last night’s event.” The smug asshole actually uses finger quotes. “And you’d be one of the people to talk to about the series of noise complaints that came in through campus security.”

“Is that so?” I reply. Tripp’s eyes dart inside where Raines is curled up in a ball, skin pale and sweaty, then over to Archer who has made no effort to move. Not that either of those two would be a big help right now, but Tripp has clearly set me up. Motherfucker. My hands itch to take care of the satisfied smirk on our president’s face, but I guess I have a dean to take care of before I can teach that asshole the concept of ‘fraternity’. He certainly was partying with the rest of us last night, it’s not my fault if girls don’t look at him sideways and if he keeps getting his ass kicked at poker.

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