Chapter 1: Lost in the Crowd
The bass from the main floor was a dull, distant heartbeat here in the hallway, overpowered by closer, more intimate sounds. Tristin moved carefully, her heels sticky on the linoleum. Each half-open door she passed framed a vignette of the night’s decay: a guy slumped over a recycling bin, a circle of girls passing a vape, their laughter sharp and brittle. The air was thick with the sweet-rot smell of spilled malt liquor and body heat.
She was looking for Marcus. Her friend, her safe person in this sea of backwards caps and oversized jerseys, had vanished into the labyrinth twenty minutes ago texting “BRB.”
Another door, this one mostly closed. A rhythmic thumping, not from a speaker, syncopated with a female gasp. Tristin glanced through the crack.
A girl was pinned against the faded blue wall, skirt hiked, legs wrapped around a guy’s hips. His motions were urgent, robotic. The girl’s face was turned, eyes closed, mouth open in a silent cry that finally found sound as a low, shuddering moan. It mixed with the bass line seeping under the door.
Tristin jerked back, her face hot. This was a mistake. The whole night was a miscalculation. Thirty-five and playing pretend in a frat house. She turned to retreat, to find the exit, to call a car.
A hand closed around her wrist. The grip was firm, warm.
“Whoa, hey. You look lost.”
She spun. He was tall, blond, built like he’d been sculpted for a regatta poster. Sandy hair, a jaw that looked like it could cut glass, and a smile that was all even, white teeth. But his eyes, a clear blue, held a different energy. They were assessing, cataloging, pleased with what they saw.
“I’m not lost,” Tristin said, pulling her wrist back. He released it, but the feel of his fingers lingered. “I’m looking for a friend.”
“In the zoo? Good luck.” He chuckled, a low, easy sound. He leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, deliberately blocking her view of the couple, his body now her entire focus. He wore a faded Sigma Chi shirt, stretched across a swimmer’s chest. “I’m Derek. This is my house.”
“Tristin.”
“Tristin,” he repeated, as if tasting the name. “You don’t look like you’re from around here.”
“What does that look like?”
“Eighteen to twenty-two. Terrified or trying way too hard. You’re neither.” His gaze traveled from her braids, over the simple black tank top and jeans, down to her boots and back up. It wasn’t a leer. It was a study. “You’re a mystery. And you’re definitely not having fun. Which is a problem, because I’m hosting.”
“I’m fine,” she said, crossing her arms. The moaning from the room had stopped. Now there was just quiet, heavy breathing.
“You’re not. Come on.” He pushed off the wall and nodded down the hall, away from the main noise. “Your friend Marcus is probably in the chapter room trying to impress freshmen with his knowledge of craft beer. It’s sad. Let’s find you a better time.”
He knew Marcus’s name. The detail was small but it disarmed her. Maybe he could actually help. And the hallway, with its panting shadows, suddenly felt more oppressive than the unknown he was offering.
“Lead the way,” she said, her voice tighter than she intended.
He smiled again, and this time it reached his eyes. Predatory, but polished. He placed a light hand on the small of her back, a gentleman’s gesture with the heat of a brand, steering her past the closed doors. His touch was proprietary.
He guided her into a side room, not the chapter room. It was an office, or a den. Leather couch, a giant Sigma Chi crest on the wall, a desk cluttered with red cups and a laptop playing a sports highlight reel on mute. It was quieter, the music a muffled pulse.
“Have a seat,” he said, closing the door behind them. The click of the latch was definitive.
She remained standing. “I thought we were finding Marcus.”
“We will. In a minute.” He went to a small fridge under the desk and pulled out two bottles of water, tossing one to her. She caught it on reflex. “First, hydrate. You’ve been navigating the trenches.”
She unscrewed the cap but didn’t drink. “You’re very… hostly.”
“It’s a responsibility.” He took a long drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He watched her over the bottle. “So, Tristin. What brings you to our humble chaos? Slumming it? Research? You have a… vibe. Like you’re used to being in charge.”
“I’m just a friend of a friend,” she deflected.
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t believe her. He set his bottle down and leaned against the desk, arms crossed. The fabric of his shirt strained. “You know, my dad always said something interesting. He was a bit of a dog, back in his day. Traveled for work. He told me, ‘Son, a lot of things can be a mistake. But black? That’s never cheating. That’s just… upgrading.’” Derek said it casually, like he was commenting on the weather, his blue eyes fixed on her, watching for the reaction.
The words landed like a physical slap. The crude, transactional racism of it, the sheer, brazen entitlement, turned the water in her stomach to ice. Her professional smile, the one she used for aggressive fans and disrespectful reporters, froze on her face.
“What did you just say?” Her voice was low, dangerously calm.
He misinterpreted the tone for intrigue. A slow, confident smile spread across his face. He pushed off the desk and took a step toward her. “I’m just saying. I see an upgrade when it walks into my house. And I make sure it gets the proper welcome. The full experience. I could show you a better time than anyone else here.”
He was close now. She could smell his cologne, something aquatic and expensive, over the beer-sweat of the house. His body was a wall of heat and intention.
The door to the office swung open.
A guy stumbled in, blurry-eyed. “Derek, man, the keg’s tapped—oh, shit, sorry.” His gaze flicked between Derek and Tristin, sensing the tense electricity in the room.
Derek didn’t turn. His eyes stayed locked on Tristin. “Get out. Find the backup. Now.”
The guy vanished, pulling the door shut. The interruption had broken the spell, the moment of dizzying, offensive pressure. It gave her space to breathe, to think.
She let her frozen smile thaw into something warmer, more genuine. She uncrossed her arms, took a sip of water. “You know,” she said, her voice shifting, letting a hint of her natural cadence through, the one she used on talk shows. “You’re right.