Chapter 6: Spiked Surrender
The sharp scent of cheap tequila clawed at Daphne’s throat. She gagged, eyes watering behind her thick lenses, the sticky floor of the Sigma Chi basement shifting uneasily under her thin sandals. Lacey’s arm was a vice around her shoulders.
“One more, Daffy!” Lacey chirped, her voice piercing through the pounding bass. She shoved another plastic cup, sloshing with clear liquid, into Daphne’s trembling hand. Lime wedges lay forgotten on a beer-pong table sticky with spilled drinks. “It’s your first frat party! Gotta catch up!”
“I… I really shouldn’t,” Daphne mumbled, the words thick. The lecture hall humiliation, the white powder accusation… they felt like bruises beneath her skin. The hypno-spray’s fog was thicker here, amplified by the alcohol, making Lacey’s commands buzz like static in her head. Be fun. Be cool. Don’t be a prude.
“Shouldn’t?” Lacey laughed, high and brittle. She leaned in, her overly sweet perfume clashing with the beer-stench. Her heavily made-up eyes glittered under the strobing disco ball. “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on that little… mishap in Hemmings’ class? Ancient history, babe.” She squeezed Daphne’s shoulders, sharp acrylic nails digging in. “This is about now. About showing Jake and the boys you’re not some frigid bookworm hiding under sweaters.” She tapped the rim of the cup against Daphne’s lips. “Bottoms up! Prove you’re not a prude!”
The word prude echoed. It mingled with the bass, with the fog, with the lingering shame. Daphne closed her eyes. Tipped the cup. The fire poured down, blurring the edges of the writhing bodies, the leering faces, the faded Greek letters on the stained walls. She swayed, grabbing the edge of the sticky table. Lacey’s hand was suddenly gone. Her voice wasn’t.
“HEY EVERYONE!” Lacey’s shout cut through the music, momentarily silencing nearby conversations. Heads turned. Daphne flinched. “My girl Daphne here wants to prove she’s not a fucking prude! She’s doing shots like a champ!”
A ripple of interest. Laughter. Whistles. Jake Mercer detached himself from a group near a keg, a slow smirk spreading across his handsome face. He ambled over, his Alpha Phi hoodie swallowing the light. “Is that right, Cole?” His voice was a lazy drawl, but his eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned her sheer top, her exposed collarbones. “Didn’t peg you for a party girl. More like a library ghost.”
Lacey giggled, draping an arm around Jake. “She’s full of surprises, Jakey.” She winked at Daphne. “Aren’t you, Daffy?”
Daphne’s vision swam. The floor tilted. She tried to speak, to protest, but her tongue felt thick, useless. The fog was everywhere, dense and warm. Be fun. Be cool. Don’t be a prude.
“So,” Jake said, his gaze never leaving Daphne. “Prove it.” He didn’t move, just raised an eyebrow. A silent signal.
Men began to drift closer. Frat brothers. Friends of Jake. Their faces blurred into a hungry circle around her and Lacey. Eyes roamed over her exposed skin, the outline of her neon bra visible through the mesh. Whispers reached her, snippets about the lecture hall, the bathroom. Laughter. The bass pulsed, vibrating up her legs.
Lacey leaned close again, her breath hot and cloying in Daphne’s ear. Her voice was a stage whisper, meant to carry just enough. “Just relax, Daffy. Okay? Stop fighting it. You look hot. They like you.” Her fingers, cold and quick, moved to the top button of Daphne’s thin, borrowed blouse – another of Lacey’s “fashion interventions.” It popped open easily. “Take what they give you. It’s just fun.” Another button. Cool air kissed Daphne’s sternum. She gasped, a small, strangled sound.
“Easy now, Cole,” Jake murmured, watching Lacey’s fingers work. His smirk deepened. The circle tightened. Bodies pressed closer, radiating heat and stale beer. Hands hovered near her waist, her arms. Not touching. Not yet. Just waiting. Hungry.
Daphne felt the room spin. The strobing lights fragmented the leering faces. Lacey’s perfume choked her. The fog inside her head muffled the screaming voice – her own voice – that whispered This is wrong. This isn’t me. Another button undone. More skin exposed to the flickering, judgmental light. Lacey’s fingers felt like insects crawling on her skin.
“That’s it,” Lacey breathed, her own excitement palpable as she surveyed the tightening ring of men. “Just relax. See? Everyone’s watching. They want you.” She giggled, the sound sharp and false. “Don’t be shy now.” Her hand rested, possessive and cold, on the last button at Daphne’s waistband. The circle held its breath. Jake’s eyes glittered like chips of ice in the disco ball’s fractured light. Daphne stood very still, swaying slightly, caught in the crossfire of Lacey’s malice, Jake’s predatory amusement, and the silent, expectant hunger of the crowd. The sticky floor seemed to pull at her sandals. The only clear thought piercing the fog was the chilling echo of Lacey’s command: Take what they give you. The bass thudded on, a relentless heartbeat counting down.