Her brain was the first thing about her that turned me on. We faced off once in our Debate & Public Speaking class. Needless to say, she shredded my every argument and ripped apart each of my rebuttals.
I could barely walk back to my seat my dick was so hard.
“Are you ready for the final rite?” Prescott asks, reminding me that unfortunately I’m still here.
“Sure.”
I’ve found saying less is always better with Prescott. He’s like a parasite leeching any word he can exploit or drain.
“You’ve met and exceeded every challenge so far,” Prescott says. “For your final rite, you will fuck a fat girl.”
A stunned silence spreads around his words like spilled milk. Really, that’s not entirely accurate since I’m the only one who seems stunned. Every other face around the table reflects excitement, discomfort, curiosity, or some mixture of all three. Even Bent watches me impassively, waiting for my response.
They don’t have long to wait.
“What the hell?” A scowl breaks out over my face like a rash. “You want me to fuck some random fat girl? I don’t understand what—”
“Not random,” Prescott interrupts. “Banner Morales.”
Fury sets a small blaze at my feet, licks up over my legs and the rest of my body. My heart is a lump of coal catching fire in my chest and burning until it hurts. So I’m basically a chimney with no chute.
“Repeat that.” My voice drops to a deceptive quiet that doesn’t bely the emotions roaring inside of me.
“I said you have to fuck a fat girl,” Prescott reiterates, his face an unreadable mask, but his eyes telling; vibrant, cruel blue. “Banner Morales.”
I’d appreciate the irony of this final challenge being something I fully intended to do anyway if it wasn’t so insulting to one of the few people I not only tolerate but really like. If it wasn’t intended to hurt her.
“I won’t do that.”
At least not for him. When I fuck Banner, it’ll be purely for me and for her.
“And she’s not fat,” I snap.
Prescott’s abrupt laughter shatters the quiet only he and I break at intervals while everyone else watches.
“We’ll say pleasingly plump if that makes you feel better, Foster.” His mouth zigzags into an icicle smile. “Either way, fuck her or you won’t get in.”
Later, when logic and a cooler head prevails, I’ll make sense of this, but right now I only know that Prescott, for some reason, wants to demean Banner and thought he would use me to do it.
“The only fucking there will be, Prescott,” I grind out, “is however you manage to fuck yourself.”
Bent groans behind me—the first sign that he is, unlike the rest of the waxen zombies assembled around the table, alive.
“Foster,” Bent hisses at my elbow. “All you have to do—”
“Shut the hell up.” I whip a look around to him. “You knew about this?”
“Good God, Foster,” Prescott intones from the head of the table. “Put a bag over her head and take the top so she doesn’t crush you. It’ll be over before you know it.”
I stand so abruptly my chair falls behind me and crashes to the floor. His words have barely polluted the air before I’m at his side and have one of his arms twisted behind his back and his face pressed to the table.
The other guys mumble and cough and protest weakly, but I spread a glare around the table in case any of them feel the need to defend this motherfucker whom they don’t even like or respect. The Pride? Give me a damn break. These men aren’t lions. They’re sheep who follow and bray.
“You’re making a huge mistake, Foster,” Prescott screams, straining futilely to loosen my hold on his arm and head. “No way you’re in after this.”
“You tiny-dick son of a bitch,” I growl. “Do I look like I still want to be in your pathetic secret treehouse club?”
I tighten my grip on his arm, watching with satisfaction the discomfort pinching his features.