Page 72 of Begging for Mercy
I never wantedto be part of a fraternity. Befriending half the student population because of the Greek letters on my jacket never appealed to me. My father always insists that networking is key to any venture in life, and my pledging was always meant to work in his favor—after all, how better could the Wright Heir be in service to his father’s fortune than by spreading his seed all over campus? But rather than sow my oats in the fertile female population, I traded in smiles and good deeds instead, eager to avoid making enemies and keep my four years of college life as simple as possible.
For the most part, my strategy has worked. I’ve only dated a handful of women, and I’ve been keeping myself open for when Mercy finally decides that she wants to be more than friends.
The fact that she’s here tonight proves that the wait has been worth it. Everyone’s being nice to her—all of my brothers in the frat and their girls, the pledges, even the Runners, whose sole job is to keep the liquor flowing, are trying to keep a cold drink in her hand at all times.
I have to intervene, of course, and offer her untapped bottles and clean drinks, but I make sure to tip the Runners nicely.
All in all, it’s a really good start to the night.
“Let me know when you need some air,” I tell Mercy, leaning over her shoulder so that she can hear me. “We can head out back or up to my room.”
She smiles at me, and I wrap my arm around her waist and press a kiss to the top of her head. Having her with me is a dream come true. If every day were like this, Greek life might not be so bad. Mercy could sit with the other girls at all of my football games, we could walk hand-in-hand at all of the seasonal bonfires and events, and she’d be my partner in the holiday toy drive.
While one of my brothers regales us with a story about a gnarly party foul from last month, I tune him out to imagine my future with Mercy. We wouldn’t have to spend all of our time on campus—her family’s property is just as good, if not better than, anything here. Plus, it’s privately owned and secluded. We could sit under the stars at night without a single interruption, drinking hot cocoa and kissing to keep warm.
I’m so lost in the fantasy that I miss the drunken conga line circling too close, and when someone trips, warm beer sloshes all over my back, drenching my shirt in suds.
Someone cheers, and the whole room chugs their drinks.
Mercy covers her ears, laughing despite the chaos. “Are all parties this loud?”
“Usually, yeah.” I tip the rest of my beer back and throw my empty cup into a trash can. “But tonight’s pregame for the Championship on Saturday. Everyone’s supposed to get hammered.” I peel my shirt off my back and toss it onto the growing pile on the floor. House rules are that if you get sloshed, you take it off. A few of my teammates slap my back as they pass by.
“Wright!”
“Henson!”
Max Henson, our only Running Back on the team, swings by, letting his drink spill over the edge as he slams to a stop with our group. Mercy dodges just in time, but she bumps into the girl behind her and spillstheirdrink. “Sorry!” she cries, stepping into my side and hooking her fingers in my empty belt loop.
“No apology necessary!” Max grins, fist bumping me. “We’re all eager to take our clothes off.”
Sasha, one of the neighboring sorority girls, rolls her eyes. “Speak for yourself.” Her shirt is damp and her shoes are ruined, but she hasn’t stripped at all. “I’m just waiting for Reaper to arrive.”
That turns Mercy’s head. “Reaper’s coming?”
My stomach drops. I should have anticipated that someone would bring it up.
“When there’s a par-tay, Reaper comes to slay puss-ay,” Max cheers, laughing. “Haven’t seen him yet, Sash, but don’t get your hopes up. The Betas had a party last week, and he never showed. Rumor is that he’s wiped.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Sasha murmurs, sipping her drink.
“What do you want with Reaper?” Mercy’s eyebrows pinch together. “Unless you’re, um?—”
“Looking to get laid?” Sasha smiles kindly. “Yeah, babe, Reaper’s the best dick there is. No offense, boys.”
Max raises his beer. “None taken. He’s a legend.”
The huddle beside ours overhears our conversation and mixes with our group, eager to talk gossip. “But he doesn’t smash twice,” one of the girls says, a wistful look in her eye. “So you’re out of luck, Sasha.”
I try to keep my expression even throughout the conversation, but Mercy isn’t as skilled at keeping a straight face. She blushes down to her roots and chugs the rest of her drink.“I think I’m ready for that air,” she murmurs, tugging me by my belt loop.
“Yes, ma’am.” Tossing her empty bottle into the trash, I lead her away from the crowd. Or at least, I try to. The room is packed now that the party’s in full swing, and we have to shuffle alongside multiple warm bodies to get anywhere near the sliding porch door.
“Sam!”
Shit.
Ignoring Abby’s voice, I pull Mercy into the dining room. Giant plastic containers filled with hunch punch cover the entire table. “Don’t drink that,” I warn Mercy, steering her through the room. “It’ll knock you on your ass. Plus, it tastes like shit.”
