Page 172 of Filthy Elites

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Staring at the storefront,I check and recheck the address.

Dale’s Barber Shop

Complete with red and white spiral pole.

“Move, goat.” The words are followed by a firm hand landing between my shoulder blades, and I stumble forward. “Time to get shorn.”

I look over my shoulder and see the tattooed, punk-rock looking Zeta Sig, named Rat. “Don’t worry. It’s just hair. It’ll grow back.” He grins. “Hopefully.”

I touch the swoop, the only thing that made this new haircut acceptable. It made me feel less exposed. Even cut and dyed, it wassomethingleft of who I used to be.

Another Zeta opens the door and impatiently gestures for me to come into the shop. I can hear the hum of clippers before I cross the threshold. Standing behind three barber chairs, dressed in white barber coats, are the officers. Royer, Miller and Knox.

My lungs get caught somewhere in my chest, wringing out every last bit of air. I glance over my shoulder, searching for what? Who? Grayson? Do I think he’s going to come in and stop this?

“Ah, number forty-seven,” Knox calls, giving me a welcoming grin. “You’re up next.”

No. If the last week has taught me anything, it’s that I’m not that lucky. And no one is coming to save me.

Three other pledges squirm in their chairs. One rubs his hand over his scalp. Another looks stunned, staring at himself in the mirror. The third just looks pissed. Oh, and they’re all sporting shaved heads.

“That’s it, boys,” Royer says, whipping the cloth smock off the pledge. All three leave, and it’s just me and two other goats behind me. Another member scurries around with a broom, sweeping up the hair. The whole thing is ludicrous.

“Are you serious with this?” The question comes out in a croak.

“All animals need a haircut. Keeps the barn healthy and hygienic.” Miller spins his chair and pays me little attention. For a second, I wonder if this will make me less attractive to him, but then I remember he’s not attracted to me, anyway. He’s addicted to power and abuse. He stops the chair and waves his hand in front of it. “Ready?”

“You take twenty-two,” Royer says, eyeing me. “I really want to be the one that gets rid of that stupid-fucking boy band swoop.”

Miller pauses and looks between me and Royer. “Uh, sure.” He shrugs. “Twenty-two, get your ass in the chair and prepare to have a head as smooth as a baby’s ass.”

Royer slaps the back of the chair and gives me a smug grin. My spine tingles. Does he know it’s me? Is this where he lets me know that I’ve fooled no one? Has Miller been playing with me this whole time? The paranoia rolls in thick, like a dense fog, and I barely remember getting in the chair.

Suddenly, I’m less worried about the haircut than being caught and exposed.

I ease into the seat, trying to avoid looking at myself, Miller or Royer in the mirror.Try, but fail. I can’t help but check out Royer. I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve missed him. I liked him—loved, really. We had fun together, or I thought we did. I know that person is still inside there. I also know he’s a liar, but can someone fake it that much?

“How many ‘ho’s do you pull with this pussy hair?” he asks, laughing. “Not many, I suspect.”

“He hooked up with Brianna the other night,” Knox comes to my defense. The kid in his chair next to me watches the exchange. “Fucked her in the bathroom.” He raises his fist—which is filled with a pair of clippers. “Ballsy freshman move.”

“Please,” Royer says, draping the smock over my upper body. His fingers graze my neck and the barest flicker of a spark shoots through me. I freeze, hoping he didn’t notice. Also, hoping he did. “Hooking up with Brianna is like riding the campus bus—free, readily available, and lots of room inside.”

He grins down at me, and I wait for it. The moment he recognizes me. I almost want it. I want him to know. I want him toseeme. I don’t see a trace of recognition. Just the obnoxious expression of a guy used to getting everything he wants—when he wants—no matter whose life he destroys in the process.

“Like Andrea’s any better,” Miller says, covering his own victim with the apron. “The only pristine pussy you’ve experienced lately was your little blacklister.”

My cheeks, neck and ears burn red. Fucking Miller.

“Hey,” he says, shooting Miller a glare. “I took one for the team. You know that.”

Knox snorts. “Let’s not pretend you dumping your cum in that tight pussy was a hardship, bro.”

I want to vanish. To die. To get swallowed up by the earth. Deep inside, every female knows that guys talk like this. Thatthey’re the worst, but to actually hear it?

“It wasn’t the fucking that was the problem. It was all the emotional hand holding. The assurances.” He grabs the clippers off the workstation counter. “‘Don’t worry baby. Only if you want. We’ll take it slow. Tell me if it hurts. I love you.’”

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