Chapter 4: The Price of Admission
The bass from the Sigma Chi house vibrated up through the soles of Sophie’s shoes before she even reached the door. Inside, the world dissolved into a strobe-lit fever dream. Neon soaked the sweating bodies, the crimson banners dripped like blood in the pulsing light, and the air tasted of citrus-flavored vodka and lost inhibitions. She tugged self-consciously at the hem of her black mini-skirt, the cold zipper biting into her lower back. The crop top felt like a second skin, and the underwire of the push-up bra she’d bought that afternoon dug into her ribs with every nervous breath. She felt ridiculous, a caricature. But the deal was clear: blend in, stay until the party died, and then get the interview. It was just a costume, she told herself. A necessary disguise.
A brother named Josh, smelling of cinnamon whisky, slid an arm around her waist. “Damn, Hayes. Didn’t know you cleaned up so good.” His hand rested low on her hip. She forced a laugh, sidestepping, her journalistic objectivity feeling like a ghost limb. Another, Brett, handed her a red cup. “This’ll loosen you up.” The punch smelled chemically sweet. She took a tiny sip, the syrup coating her tongue, and scanned the heaving crowd for Declan. Everywhere, hands brushed her arms, her waist. A voice whispered something crude about her skirt into her ear. She flinched. Each interaction was a tiny erosion, a grain of sand stripped from a cliff face. She repeated her mantra silently: Just until it dies down.
She repeated her mantra silently: Just until it dies down. A sharp tug on her elbow pulled her from the throng. “Oh, honey, no.” The voice belonged to a willowy blonde with glassy eyes and glossy lips. “You are pretty, but that interview face won’t get you past Declan’s door.” Before Sophie could protest, the girl—Chloe, she said—was dragging her through a sticky hallway towards a bathroom. “A quick touch-up. Trust me.”
The bathroom light was a brutal, buzzing white. Chloe dug into a sequined clutch, producing a small arsenal of compacts and pencils. “First, we wipe this sad little foundation away.” The cold makeup wipe scraped over Sophie’s skin. “You have great bone structure, but it’s, like, hiding.” A thick, creamy concealer followed, then a sweep of bronzer that made her cheekbones look strangely sharp. Sophie watched, a prisoner in the mirror, as her familiar face began to recede.
“Eyes are everything,” Chloe murmured, leaning in. The kohl pencil was cold and insistent, tracing a heavy, dark line around Sophie’s lids that made her blue eyes appear vast and doll-like. “See? Instantly more awake. And fuck-me eyes.” She then produced a mascara wand, coating Sophie’s lashes until they were thick, spidery clumps. “Guys love this. It’s a signal.” Sophie blinked, her eyelids feeling heavy and foreign.
“Lips need to say ‘hello,’ but also ‘I’m not a reporter.’” A sticky, neon-pink gloss was slicked over her mouth, making them look perpetually parted. “There.” Chloe leaned back, admiring her work. “Now you look like you belong here.” Sophie stared at the reflection. The woman looking back had the wide, lined eyes of a porn star she’d once critiqued in a media studies paper. A hollow feeling spread in her chest.
“You should really go platinum, you know,” Chloe said, repacking her bag. “And a little lip filler would perfect that pout. Acrylics, too. There’s nothing more feminine than a good set of claws.” She wiggled her own long, polished nails. “It’s not a mask, it’s armor. Wearing more is actually super empowering.” Sophie wanted to scoff, to wipe the sludge from her face with a sarcastic remark. But the words—platinum, filler, feminine, empowering—drifted down into some dark, receptive place inside her, settling like sediment in still water.
But the words—platinum, filler, feminine, empowering—drifted down into some dark, receptive place inside her, settling like sediment in still water. “I’m Chloe, by the way,” the blonde said, snapping her clutch shut. “You’re Soph, right? I’ve seen you in the library.”
Sophie nodded, the gesture feeling stiff. “Sophie.”
“Soph is cuter,” Chloe declared, her eyes then dropping critically to Sophie’s hips. “Oh, honey, no. We have a bigger problem than your makeup.” She grimaced, pointing at the distinct lines visible through the thin fabric of the skirt. “Traditional panties? This fabric is practically painted on. You need a thong.”
Sophie’s face flushed. “I’m not one of those girls who—”
“Who feels amazing and doesn’t look like a sack of potatoes?” Chloe finished, already hiking up her own tiny dress. With a practiced motion, she hooked her thumbs into the sides of a flash of neon pink lace and stepped out of it. “Here. It’s clean, I just put it on.” She held out the delicate scrap of fabric like a lifeline.
Sophie stared at the offered thong, her mind recoiling. This was a boundary she had policed for years. “I can’t just take your… underwear.”
“It’s sisterhood, Soph. Just swap it,” Chloe said, as if discussing a hair tie. “Trust me, once you get used to them, you’ll never feel good in anything else. They’re freeing. Empowering.”
The word empowering echoed, mingling with the bass thump from the party. Hesitant fingers closed around the warm, slick lace. The exchange was made in the cramped stall, a fumbling, surreal moment where the waistband of her sensible cotton briefs felt like a relic from a dead civilization. The neon pink thong was an absurd whisper against her skin, a constant, intimate awareness.
A silent shift clicked into place within her. I am not one of those girls, her old voice insisted, weak and distant. But the new, undeniable truth was a sensation: the slight, proprietary glide of lace. She was, now. Chloe beamed. “See? No lines. Perfect. We should totally go shopping this week, get you a real set.”
They emerged from the bathroom, and Sophie walked differently, each step a conscious negotiation with the alien thread of lace.
Chloe halted her with a hand on her arm, her eyes critically scanning Sophie’s silhouette in the dim hallway light. “One last thing,” she said, her fingers hooking into the waistband at Sophie’s hips to tug the neon lace lines up, positioning them just above the skirt's hem. Then, with a deft pinch, she pulled the fabric of the crop top aside, spreading the cleavage until the stark black lace edge of the push-up bra was prominently displayed. “There,” Chloe whispered, her breath warm and smelling of mint vodka. “Perfect—guys love being teased like that, it makes them crazy.”
Chloe dragged her back into the crush, and the night melted into a sweaty, sonic blur. Sophie found herself laughing at something stupid, the sound higher and looser than her own. She drank the syrupy punch Chloe kept handing her, the alcohol burning away the sharp edges of her purpose. A brother named Tucker slid a hand onto the small of her back, his thumb stroking the exposed skin above her skirt, and she didn’t move away. She watched how Chloe would arch into a touch, giggle at a dumb joke, and let a guy’s hands linger on her waist as they shouted over the music. Unthinking, Sophie mirrored the arch, the giggle, the lingering.
“Think you two can handle a little competition?” a broad-shouldered brother slurred, pointing to a beer pong table. Chloe squeezed Sophie’s arm. “We’ll destroy you. Losers show their tits.” The guys whooped. Sophie’s stomach tightened, but the word “prude” seemed to hang in the air, and Chloe was already dragging her forward. The game was a brutal rout; their throws went wild, their cups were sunk with merciless efficiency. The final cup was gone, and the room chanted, “Pay up, pay up!”
Chloe, with a theatrical roll of her eyes, shrugged off her top and flashed the leering circle. All eyes swung to Sophie. Her mind screamed, a silent riot of no. But Chloe’s expectant smirk, the pounding chant, the weight of all the traded looks and accidental touches throughout the night collapsed upon her. Her fingers, moving as if detached, pulled up the thin fabric of her crop top. The cold air hit her skin, and the room erupted.
The roar of approval was a physical wave, hotter than the stage lights searing her skin. Her arms remained locked above her, the crop top a limp flag in her clenched fist. Her eyes, lined and mascaraed into a stranger's, scanned the blur of hungry faces until they found Chloe’s triumphant, gleaming smile.
A new chant coalesced from the noise, rhythmic and insistent. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” The words pounded in time with Sophie’s trapped heartbeat. Chloe shrugged, a playful “why not” tilt to her head, and closed the space between them. Sophie’s mind fragmented, one part screaming retreat, another part passively noting the sticky heat of Chloe’s palm as it cupped her jaw.
The kiss was a performance, all exaggerated movement and slick, neon gloss. Chloe’s tongue traced the seam of her lips, and Sophie, guided by some deep, corrupted instinct to sell the moment, parted them. She heard the crowd’s fever pitch, felt their collective gaze like a physical touch. She arched her back, the push-up bra straining, and let her own hand tangle in Chloe’s bleach-blonde hair, mirroring the pantomime of passion.
When they broke apart, panting for the audience, Sophie’s breath hitched not from desire but from a profound, chilling disconnect. The screaming applause sounded miles away. She looked at Chloe’s smudged lips, then down at her own bare skin, and for a terrifying second, she could not remember the woman she was supposed to be.
The roar of the party swelled again, swallowing her moment of silence. Hours bled together in a smear of neon and noise, another cup of lukewarm punch thrust into her hand, another nameless brother’s arm slung over her shoulder. Her laugh became a brittle, automatic thing, clicking on and off like a faulty switch.
She was watching Chloe whisper into some guy’s ear when a thick hand clamped onto the blonde’s wrist. “C’mon, party’s movin’,” the brother grunted, his words slurred but his grip undeniable. Chloe just winked back at Sophie over her shoulder, a flicker of something unreadable in her glazed eyes before she was pulled down the dark hallway and into a bedroom, the door clicking shut behind them.
The lock’s sound was final. Sophie stood frozen, the image of Ethan’s concerned breakfast frown superimposing itself over the closed door. Her own sticky gloss felt toxic on her lips. Then a different voice cut through the haze, close and clear. “Hayes. Declan’s ready for you now.” It was Josh from earlier, nodding toward the staircase. “Top of the stairs. Don’t keep him waiting.” The interview. The reason she’d come. She touched her shirt, her fingers fumbling for the first button, a forgotten anchor from a different life.
She touched her shirt, her fingers fumbling for the first button, a forgotten anchor from a different life. The climb up the carpeted stairs felt like wading through deep water, each step a separate negotiation with gravity. The throbbing bass from below softened to a dull pulse through the floorboards, replaced by the sound of her own heartbeat thudding in her ears.
At the top, a single door stood ajar, spilling a bar of warm, quiet light onto the hallway’s dim carpet. She pushed it open, her movements clumsy. Declan’s room was a study in curated disarray—a sprawling oak desk piled with textbooks and a sleek laptop, a large window overlooking the quad, a Sigma Chi banner hanging above a queen-sized bed with rumpled linen sheets. He sat in a leather wingback chair, swirling amber liquid in a crystal tumbler, looking not like a party host but a young CEO holding court.
“Sophie Hayes,” he said, his voice a clean cut through the muffled music. “You made it. Close the door, would you? The noise is distracting.” She obeyed, the click of the latch feeling final. The relative silence was suddenly oppressive, thick with the scent of sandalwood cologne and stale whiskey.
“Sit.” He gestured to the edge of the bed. She moved toward it, her legs unsteady, and lowered herself onto the cool duvet. Her purse, containing her digital recorder, slid off her shoulder and onto the floor with a soft thump. She stared at it, a dark shape on the rug. The thought to retrieve it felt distant, cumbersome.
“You look… involved,” Declan observed, taking a slow sip. His eyes traveled over her, from the smudged mascara to the exposed cleavage Chloe had arranged. “The campus newshound, blending in with the pack. How’d you find the party?”
“It was…” she began, her tongue thick and slow. She grasped for her earlier disgust, the outrage she’d intended to weaponize. “Loud.”
“Come on, Hayes. You’re a journalist. Specifics.” He smiled, a thin, inviting curve of his lips. “I saw you playing beer pong. And before that, with Chloe. Looked like you were having fun.”
The word ‘fun’ landed strangely in her foggy mind. She remembered the chanting, the flashing lights, the sheer, animal release of not thinking. “It was an experience,” she managed, the words slurry.
“Chloe’s a riot, right? A good friend to have.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Loyal. Knows how to enjoy herself. Not everything has to be a thesis statement, you know. Sometimes a party is just a party.”
Her head swam. A good friend. The memory of Chloe’s hands on her face, the shared, performative kiss, flickered. It had been shocking, audacious. A story she’d never tell. But beneath the shame, a thread of something else pulsed—a bizarre, illicit thrill. She pushed it down. “I’m here for the interview.”
“Of course you are.” He didn’t move. “But you seem a little off your game. Thirsty?” He nodded toward a small refrigerator humming in the corner. “I’ve got water. Or something to take the edge off. You look flushed.”
The mention of water made her aware of a parched, cottony feeling in her throat. The punch had been all sugar and heat. “Water, please.”
He stood, moving with a predator’s grace, and opened the fridge. He pulled out two chilled bottles. As he walked back, he uncapped one and handed it to her. Then he paused, looking at her with a faint, concerned frown. “You know, for the puffiness. Long night.” From his pocket, he produced the same small, elegant atomizer he’d used the week before. “A quick spritz. Cucumber and mint. Works better than caffeine.”
Her brain, slowed by alcohol, made a weak connection. He’d offered this before. It had been refreshing. Cool. It had helped her focus. She remembered that clarity. She needed that now. “Okay,” she murmured, and tilted her head back, closing her eyes.
The fine mist hit her skin, cool and fragrant. She inhaled deeply, the crisp scent cutting through the boozy haze. For a second, it was just a sensation. Then, a familiar, soothing warmth began to spread from her forehead, softening the drumbeat behind her eyes, untangling the knots in her stomach. The room seemed to soften at the edges.
“Better?” His voice sounded warmer, closer.
“Mmhmm.” She opened her eyes. He was studying her, his gaze intent.
“You relaxed. Good.” He didn’t step back. “You know, I noticed something downstairs. You carry yourself differently tonight.” His eyes dipped, not to her chest, but to the line of her skirt. “The confidence. It’s in the details. Like knowing what undergarments work with an outfit. Most girls don’t get that.”
The comment floated into her mind. Her hand drifted automatically to her hip, feeling the slight ridge of the lace through the fabric. Chloe’s thong. Empowering. The word echoed, not as Chloe’s voice, but as her own emerging thought. It did feel better. Cleaner. More intentional. She wasn’t hiding in frumpy cotton anymore. She was precise.
“I suppose,” she heard herself say softly. “It matters. Presentation.”
“Everything’s presentation,” Declan agreed, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “You’re presenting a story tonight just by walking in here. The way you were laughing with Chloe, the way you moved at the table… you presented a girl who’s up for anything. A girl who’s fun. Is that who you are, Sophie?”
The spray’s warmth was pooling in her mind, making his questions feel profound, not invasive. The night replayed in snippets—Chloe’s laughter, the adrenaline of the game, the roaring approval of the crowd. The shame she’d felt was blurring, melting under this new, warm scrutiny. It had been fun. In a wild, unpredictable way. And Chloe had helped her. Had been, in her own intense manner, kind.
“Maybe,” she whispered. The conviction in her voice from yesterday, the drive to expose him, was a faint, muffled echo. “It was… different. But not bad.”
He smiled, a genuine, approving smile. “See? Journalism isn’t just about confrontation. It’s about understanding. Even enjoying the subject matter.” He finally sat back down, picking up his glass. “So, ask your questions. Let’s have a real conversation.”
Sophie looked at him, at the calm expectation on his face. She looked down at her purse on the floor, the recorder inside. The effort to reach for it, to press record, to marshal her sharp questions, felt Herculean. Impossible. The warmth in her head was a gentle tide, smoothing out all the sharp, anxious edges. She left the purse on the floor.
“Okay,” she said, her voice airy and placid. “Let’s talk.”
She nodded, the movement slow and heavy. “The fundraiser last semester.” Her voice sounded distant, even to her. “The one for the library renovations. There were… discrepancies in the finance report.”
Declan took a slow sip, the ice clinking. “Discrepancies.” He repeated the word like it was a mildly interesting insect. “That’s a serious accusation. You have proof?”
“I have questions,” Sophie said, blinking. Forming the sentences was like wading through syrup. “The allocation for the new periodicals. The numbers don’t match the vendor receipts.”
“Vendor receipts.” He smiled, indulgent. “Sounds tedious. You know, most people at that fundraiser were just happy to be there. The music was good. The champagne was decent. Did you go?”
“I… no. I was working on the story.”
“Pity. It was a good party. A lot of connection. Networking.” He tilted his head. “Like tonight. You networked tonight. Quite effectively, from what I saw.”
The shift was so smooth it felt like her own train of thought. Her mind, soft and pliant, followed it. “What do you mean?”
“Downstairs.” His gaze was direct, unblinking. “You were the life of it, for a minute. The beer pong table. You know, most girls who pull a stunt like that are trying way too hard. But you? It looked natural. Like you were just… enjoying the moment. Owning it.”
The warm feeling in her head pulsed gently. Natural. Owning it. The words wrapped around the memory, reshaping it. The choking shame softened into a mere buzz of adrenaline recalled.
“It wasn’t planned,” she heard herself say, a faint defensive note quickly dissolving.
“Of course it wasn’t. That’s what made it real. It was just fun. A laugh. No one got hurt.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Hell, your boyfriend would probably think it was hot if he saw it.”
The word “boyfriend” was a cold key turning in a rusty lock. Ethan. His name surfaced, bringing a wave of disjointed images: his confused frown over coffee, his hand holding hers in the library, the solid, safe weight of him. A sharp twist of guilt pierced the fog.
“That’s… no, he wouldn’t,” she murmured, her eyes dropping to her hands.
“Why not?” Declan’s tone was pure, reasonable curiosity. “You didn’t do anything. You showed a little skin. You shared a theatrical kiss with a friend for a cheering crowd. Where’s the crime? It’s not like you sneaked off with some guy. It’s not like you fucked someone.”
The crude word hung in the perfumed air. It should have shocked her. Instead, it acted as a stark boundary marker. He was right. She hadn’t crossed that line. The line felt suddenly, enormously significant.
“It just feels…” she searched for the anchor of her old conviction, “…disloyal.”
“Loyalty’s in here,” he said, tapping his temple. “It’s a choice. You choose to go home to him. You choose to be his. What you do before that, for yourself, to feel alive… that’s just experience. It’s compartmentalization.” He shrugged, a elegant lift of his shoulders. “Smart people understand that. If he never knows, it never hurts him. So where’s the betrayal?”
The logic was a sleek, dark eel sliding through the murky water of her thoughts. It found purchase. Compartmentalization. A smart person’s tool. The guilt began to morph, not dissipating, but changing into a more complex, intriguing shape.
“The fundraiser,” she tried again, weakly, grasping for her purpose.
“Was a success,” he finished, his smile turning pitying. “Sophie. Look at you. You’re a twenty-year-old woman at a prime party. You had a prime experience. And you’re sitting here, trying to talk about vendor receipts.” He shook his head, a master bemused by a pupil’s folly. “The story isn’t in the paperwork. The story is in the room. You were the story tonight. And you were fascinating.”
He stood up, looking down at her. The interview was clearly over. “Think about it. What’s more valuable? A line in the campus paper about a budget typo? Or knowing what it feels like to have a whole room watch you and know you’re the most exciting thing in it?”
He walked to the door and opened it. The muted thunder of the party rushed in. “You should get going. It’s late.”
She stood, her legs unsteady. Her purse still lay on the floor. She bent to pick it up, the movement causing a dizzy wave. The recorder inside felt like a absurd, heavy brick.
She walked past him, through the doorway. The hallway seemed longer, the carpet softer under her feet.
“Sophie,” he said from behind her. She turned. He was leaning in the frame, a silhouette against the warm light of his room. “A little fun with other guys isn’t cheating. It’s research. As long as your boyfriend doesn’t know, it’s just a secret that makes you more interesting. To yourself.”
She descended the stairs, his words weaving into the chemical warmth still cradling her brain. The party was a dying animal, fewer bodies, slower music. She pushed through the front door and the cold night air was a slap.
She started walking, directionless. The images collided: Ethan’s trusting eyes, Chloe’s demanding mouth, the roaring crowd, Declan’s calm, rational voice. It’s not cheating if he doesn’t know. It’s just a secret. It makes you more interesting.
Her fingers found her own glossed lips. She felt the phantom pressure of the kiss, saw the hunger in the anonymous faces. A part of her recoiled, screaming. A newer, quieter part wondered if that scream was just the sound of her old, simpler self dying. She touched the lace at her hip, a hidden claim. She walked faster, but the confusion walked with her, step for step, a deep, thrilling, and terrifying split in the earth beneath her feet.