Chapter 1: Paddles, Pasts, and Payback
(ALL characters in this story are over 18)
The bass was a physical thing, a vibration that started in the floorboards and traveled up through the soles of Jeanne’s boots, into her bones. It set the tempo for the entire humid, heaving mass of the Delta Iota Kappa house.
She squeezed Dylan’s hand as they pushed through the smudged front door, the wave of sound and heat hitting them like a wall. “See? Told you it’d be insane,” she yelled over the music, giving him a smile that was all bright, conspiratorial charm.
Dylan blinked, his eyes adjusting to the strobe-light chaos. Neon beer signs cast a sickly, intermittent glow over faces slick with sweat. The air was a thick soup of spilled cheap whiskey, cigarette smoke, and the sharp, animal scent of too many bodies in too small a space. He looked adorable and utterly out of place in his pressed khakis and rugby shirt.
“It’s something,” he shouted back, his gaze catching on a faded poster of a woman riding a mechanical bull, then darting away. He tightened his grip on her hand. “You know a lot of people here?”
Jeanne’s eyes were already scanning the crowd, a predator’s lazy sweep. “A few. It’s a frat, everyone knows everyone.” Her heart gave a little kick against her ribs, a thrill that was half anxiety, half pure electric anticipation. This was her element, this swirling, anonymous dark. Here, she was who she wanted to be.
They shuffled deeper into the main room. A line of giggling girls snaked away from the center, where a new, ominous feature had been installed. A low balance-beam, lacquered black, stood on two sawhorses. Beside it, a table held a row of shot glasses and, prominently, a heavy wooden paddle with the Greek letters ΔΙΚ burned into the grain. A brother with a crooked smile was demonstrating its use on a willing volunteer, the sharp crack cutting through the bass line, followed by a shriek of laughter.
Dylan stared. “What the hell is that?”
“Punishment station,” Jeanne said, as if it were obvious. She shrugged, her shoulder brushing his arm. “You lose a beer pong game, you do a shot, you take a paddle. Standard stuff.”
He looked queasy. “Standard.”
That’s when she saw him. Freddie, leaning against a pillar by the keg, a red plastic cup in hand. His gaze locked onto hers immediately, a slow, familiar grin spreading across his face. He raised his cup in a salute and started to weave through the crowd toward them. Oh, no.
Panic, cold and slick, coiled in her stomach. Freddie had the subtlety of a car alarm. If he opened his mouth, it was over. Dylan would be confused, then hurt, then gone. The entire carefully constructed fantasy of the night—the secret thrill of the old life brushing against the new—would evaporate.
She had maybe ten seconds.
Dylan was still staring at the paddle station, mercifully distracted. Jeanne leaned into him, rising on her toes to speak directly into his ear, her breath warm. Her perfume, something dark and vanilla, cut through the beer-stench. “I need to hit the bathroom. My lipstick is a disaster. Can you grab us drinks? Find the keg, be brave.” She gave his hand a final squeeze and a playful shove toward the kitchen.
He nodded, smiling, eager to have a task. “Don’t get lost.”
“Never.” She watched his back disappear into the press of bodies, then turned just as Freddie arrived, smelling of citrus cologne and stale beer.
“Jeanne! Fuck, I thought that was you. Looking good enough to—” He reached out, his hand aiming for the small of her back.
She sidestepped his touch, her smile not wavering, but her eyes turned hard and flat. In one smooth, brutal motion, she brought the heel of her boot down onto the top of his foot, grinding the narrow spike into his instep.
Freddie’s jovial expression shattered. A strangled gasp escaped him. He doubled over slightly, his face flushing a deep, furious red.
Jeanne kept smiling, leaning in as if to share a secret. Her voice was a honeyed razor blade. “Freddie. You look at me like that again, you say one fucking word about knowing me beyond a casual ‘hey,’ and next time it won’t be your foot. We clear?”
He straightened up, pain and shock warring in his eyes. He’d forgotten. She saw the memory click back into place—the Jeanne who didn’t play by anyone’s rules but her own. He gave a tight, jerky nod.
“Good boy,” she purred. She patted his cheek, the gesture demeaning. “Now, be useful. My boyfriend, Dylan. The kid in the khakis by the keg. He’s sweet. He’s also in the way.”
Freddie’s eyes, still watering, followed her gesture. He saw Dylan, fumbling with the keg tap, getting jostled by a guy in a stained tank top. Understanding dawned, replacing the anger with something more calculating. A mean little smirk touched his lips. “The way?”
“Keep him busy. Entertain him. Show him the ‘brotherhood.’” Her gaze flicked to the paddle on the table. “Make sure he has a real D-I-K experience. Get a few others to help. I want him thoroughly… occupied.”
“And for you?”
“That’s none of your business.” Her eyes continued their scan, landing on a figure emerging from the shadowed hallway that led to the basement stairs.Jake. He was leaning against the doorframe, watching the exchange with quiet amusement. He’d seen the whole foot-stomp maneuver. He gave her a slow, knowing wink.
Freddie, now fully onboard with the promise of humiliating an oblivious outsider, hobbled off toward Dylan, his laugh already turning too loud, too forced. He slung an arm around Dylan’s shoulders, making him jump. Dylan’s confused, polite smile was already a form of surrender.
Jeanne didn’t wait. She moved through the crowd like a ghost, people parting for her without knowing why. She stopped in front of Jake. He was taller, his eyes a cool, assessing gray. He didn’t speak, just offered her his hand, palm up.An invitation.
Without a word, she took it. His fingers closed around hers, warm and sure. He drew her smoothly into the dimness of the hallway, the noise of the party fading to a dull, throbbing roar behind them. The air here was cooler, smelling of damp concrete and marijuana.
He backed her against the wall, one hand braced beside her head, not touching her, just caging her in. His other hand still held hers, their fingers interlaced. “Welcome back,” he said, his voice a low rumble she felt in her chest. “He the reason for the radio silence?”
“He’s a reason,” she admitted, looking up at him. The mischievous glint was back in her eye, bright and unabashed. “Not tonight, though.”
Jake studied her face, reading the intent there. He smiled, a real one this time. “Freddie’s on distraction duty?”
“With extreme prejudice.”
“Good.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear. “Basement’s clear. Lost bet. Solemn oath of secrecy and all that.” He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, a tiny, devastating caress. “You sure?”
In answer, she tugged her hand from his and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, pulling him with her toward the heavy door at the end of the hall. The stairwell beyond was pitch black, the thumping music now just a distant heartbeat through the floor. She led, he followed.
As the door swung shut behind them, sealing them in silent, pressing dark, the last sound from the party world above was Freddie’s raucous laughter, cutting sharp and clear through the music, followed by the distinct, echoing crack of wood meeting denim.