Page 9 of The Player

“It’s been fun,” he said. “But we’re done.”

Phallon slapped him again. That was two. He used to like her kind of crazy, and he’d thought it was hot, especially in bed, but this wasn’t hot. This was a headache he should’ve gotten rid of weeks ago.

“Who is she, Drew? Huh? Is it Trisha?”

Trisha, Phallon’s sorority sister, had cornered him in the bathroom at the last party and asked if she could suck his dick. And since when did he turn down a hot girl offering to get on her knees?

“I already told you,” he said. “She only blew me. I didn’t fuck that girl.”

Phallon made a sound that was half scream, half growl, and swung at him again. This time, Drew caught her wrist before her hand got anywhere near his face. That shut her up for a second.

“Don’t,” he said.

“You’re a piece of shit, Drew. You know that?” She snatched her hand back and started circling his room, mascara running down her cheeks. “A selfish, arrogant piece of shit.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?!”

“What do you want me to say, Phallon?”

She was full-on bawling now, her shoulders shaking and her face red and blotchy. For half a second, guilt slipped in. Then he shut it right back down, because fuck that. He hadn’t lied to her. He hadn’t promised her a damn thing.

“You used me,” she said, smaller now. “This entire time.”

He shrugged. “You used me back. You don’t see me crying about it.”

That started her up again. She called him every name she could think of, somehow coming up with new ways to string curse words and insults together. He had to give her credit for that much. He might’ve been impressed if he wasn’t so damn tired of listening to her.

He let her go on for another minute. Then he was done. His roommates had already ditched him for the party once it was obvious Phallon was in no hurry to leave, and he had somewhere else to be. If Nicole showed up tonight, he wasn’t about to miss it because Phallon wanted to lose her shit in his bedroom.

“All right, you’re done. Now get the fuck out. You’re embarrassing yourself.” Drew tipped his head toward the door.

She was still crying, but she’d gone from sad to mean.

“You’re going to regret this,” she said.

“Probably not.”

She stared at him like she was deciding whether to take one more swing, but finally grabbed her purse off his bed instead. He followed her down the hall, staying close enough to keep her moving.

Once she stepped out onto the porch, she turned back and gave him one last hard look. “Fuck you, Drew.”

He shut the door in her face, cutting off whatever she planned to say next.

Fuckin’ psycho.

Greek Row was packed, cars lining both sides of the street and groups of students heading down the sidewalks toward the frat houses. Nicole had heard the party from two blocks away, and that was about as close as she’d managed to park. She and Bailey hoofed it the rest of the way in their heels, and by the time they got to the right block, the bass was thumping hard enough that they could feel it in their chests.

The party had started hours ago, but getting out of the house had taken forever. Bailey had gone through three outfits before finally settling on a tiny Bebe baby tee, Guess jeans, a black choker, and Steve Madden platforms. Nicole had gone with a fitted black DKNY bodysuit, a super-short Jean Paul Gaultier pleated plaid skirt, sheer black tights, and black leather Walter Steiger boots.

They’d cranked the stereo and hyped each other up while clothes piled up in both bedrooms, then taken over Nicole’s bathroom with makeup and hair stuff. Bailey worked a crimping iron through her shoulder-length black hair while Nicole pinned the last of the small Bantu knots across her hairline into place. She’d left the back down with the ends flipped out and pulled two loose pieces free to frame her face.

By the time they got out the door, the sun was down and the heat had let up. It was actually cool out, with dry leaves scraping along the sidewalk and piling up against the curb and around the big trees lining the street. The sorority and fraternity houses they passed all had their porch lights on, and calling them houses was generous. They were mansions, set way back from the street, with lawns cut so low and edged so sharp you could tell somebody got paid good money to keep them that way.

Every few yards, another group came out of a side street or climbed out of a parked car, all of them headed the same way. Drew’s frat house was at the end of the block, three stories of old brick with white columns out front and Greek letters mounted high over the door. The lawn was as perfect as all the others, except this one had people all over it. They packed the porch with red cups in their hands, sat on the steps, leaned over the railings, and stood around in little groups on the grass. It was exactly the fraternity party Nicole had expected, loud and crowded and run by white boys who thought they were the center of the universe.

There wasn’t another Black person in sight. Not one. Nicole scanned the crowd out of habit anyway, checking faces and catching the quick double takes some people gave before they looked away.