Chapter 8

BENNY

I have a niggling headache, thanks to Emmett's drinking last night, but it's nothing some painkillers don't squash. Since I'm planning to be at the house all day—my party, which means I'm in charge of supervising cleanup—Em's gone out. Knowing he's not locked away in my bedroom helps lessen some of my anxiety around him and what he's doing and means I get to funnel all that anxiety toward Harrison instead.

Good times.

I shouldn't. I'm being a dumbass. The dude is straight and off the table, which isn't an issue, except when I mentioned a crush last night, I might not have been far off. Stupid things. Crushes are pointless and meaningless. A bit of attraction and the excitement of someone new is all well and good until the newness wears off and you realize you don't actually like anything about them.

That's where I am with Harrison.

He's the shiny new toy, and I'm the bratty toddler who doesn't want anyone else to play with him.

He said that he was coming around today, but we never talked a time, and after downing a few more drinks once it was established hooking up was off the table, I wouldn't be surprised if he's forgotten all about it.

Bad ideas are always great when you're having fun. Following through is a whole other story.

So now I'm doing that annoying thing where I'm bouncing from room to room and definitely not straining my ears for any sign of someone at the front door.

"You call that floor clean, Harper?" I call from where I'm perched on the kitchen counter, smashing my way through a bag of Takis and ignoring the way my mouth is burning.

He flips me off with one hand and keeps scrubbing with the other.

Having pledges means I don't have to do any of the actual cleaning myself. We've all been there on the bottom rungs of the frat, and one day, these guys will be the ones sitting on the counter, watching. We all know I'll end up getting my hands dirty eventually though. That's brotherhood. Give them shit for an hour, then everyone gets into it and gets the job done. Sure, the house smells of sweaty gym gear most of the time, but none of us like living in a dump.

I flick a Taki onto the floor in front of Harper. "Missed a spot."

"Fuck you, Dalton." He picks up the bright blue tube, jumps to his feet, then crushes it in my hair before I can stop him.

"Hey, uncool."

He slaps a hand on the bag and crushes half of them for good measure. "Keep them in the bag, you dick."

Oh, the images of upturning the crushed chips all over the floor are sweet, but even I'm not that much of a jerk.

Harper gets back to work right as there's a familiar, warm chuckle behind me.

"What the hell is in your hair?"

I turn toward Harrison's voice, gut doing this fun, bubbly thing, and smile. "You really don't know how to quit while you're ahead, do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're here. To clean. A frat house post-party."

He shrugs, drawing my attention to his freckly, unevenly tanned shoulders. "If you think this could be any worse than cutting lawns, you're mistaken."

Poor man. With a smirk, I drop from the counter, cross to one of the stools, and lift the butt cushion. It unearths the sight and smell of puke.

Harrison takes a swift step back. "Right. Well, that's fucking disgusting."

"Too late to back out now."

He drops his phone and keys onto the counter, then rounds it and starts pulling cleaning stuff out from under the sink. "You're surprisingly well stocked."

"This isn't our first party."

"True." He fills up a bucket with sponges and chemicals. "Where are we starting?"

"We? Oh no, friend. You're on your own here."

Harrison laughs and steps forward. He plucks the chip bag from me and sets it aside, then combs his fingers through my hair, clearing the crushed chip out. That happy bubbling explodes, and I growl at it to shut the hell up.

"There is no way," Harrison says, in an overly happy voice, "that you're getting out of this. You're going to grab a trash bag and come to the front living room I passed that hadn't been touched yet, and we're going to scrub the hell out of that thing."

"But … but … then who will supervise?"

"Anyone but you," Harper snarks, flicking water at my leg.

"Ahhh …" Harrison points at Big Wally, who's just risen and walks in wearing an open robe, Kings football socks, and a pair of tighty-whities. "That guy."

Big Wally pauses by us. "Who, me?"

"Yup." Harrison passes him my chips. "Good luck."

Then, he takes my hand in one of his large ones and tugs me from the room. The only thing that stops me from being pissed he gave my food away is the curse from Big Wally as he swallows a chip whole, then scrambles for a glass of water.

"'K. That was fun."

"This won't be though."

We step into the living room, and I seriously regret throwing this party just to get laid. Especially since no dick sucking was had. It could have happened, too, if I'd wanted to ditch my new friend and pick up any number of the guys who'd been there last night that I know would have been down. That's another point for the stupid column when it comes to crushes. All your good sense goes out the window.

Who the hell passes on an orgasm just to hang out with someone platonically?

"Trash," he says. "Off you go."

"What'd you call me?"

"I'll call you a lot worse if we're stuck doing this all bloody day."

So, I might not have planned to help for a while yet, but here we are, so I might as well just get on with it. Besides, I get to do it hanging out with Harrison, so that makes it less bad, even if the urge to give myself a minor injury just to get out of it has only decreased by a smidge.

"You guys know how to throw a party," Harrison says, wiping spilled drink off the wall. "It was a lot of fun, but I think I've officially hit the age of hangovers making me question if it's worth it."

"Wait. You're here and you're hungover?"

"I thought my jog and tea would help, but I ended up puking behind some bushes off campus."

"Wow. Someone is going to get a nice, early morning surprise."

"I didn't leave it there." Of course not. Harrison is Mr. Responsible. "I snuck the people's hose and used it to wash the mess away."

"I don't know of a single person who would have done that."

"Maybe you need new friends. Besides, their geraniums needed watering, so … two birds."

I laugh. "Geraniums. You're such a nerd."

"You say that like it's a bad thing, frat boy."

"Tell me something cool about plants."

"Ohhh, okay!" He thinks for a second. "Did you know there are more microorganisms in one teaspoon of soil than there are people on Earth?"

I think my brain short-circuits. "Wait … that's like …" I try to picture a teaspoon and make my fingers in the rough size of the spoon I had breakfast with this morning. "No way."

"Seriously."

"I don't fucking believe you."

Harrison tips his head to the side. "Want to make a bet of that?"

I'm not stupid enough to fall for it. "Nope. I'll accept your word."

"Smart boy." He keeps scrubbing. "Tell me something cool about hockey."

I get that one-second tension that always hits when someone mentions the H-word to me. Then I remember that Harrison isn't a sports guy, and while I might tease him about being a nerd, I way prefer that and his plant facts over him catching on to who I am.

"Umm …" I try to remember all the things I actually liked about the sport before everything went to shit. Before the pressure and politics outweighed the fun of skating. I can't tell him that Em and I were a force to be reckoned with. That once we hit the ice together, we were so tuned in to each other that it almost didn't seem fair to the other team. That's the part I miss. The part I used to thrive on. I might have had a reputation for not following the coach's directions, but none of that was intentional. I'd even argue it was on him. Calling out left and right when I'm skating at those speeds is ridiculous.

Too bad the flip side of being that good and being a legacy meant that whenever we fucked up, people got nasty. Catty. Cranky coaches and people online saying we wouldn't make it through a game without each other was common after a loss. It hurt every time. Then there was the ever-present threat of us being drafted to different teams on opposite sides of the country. Em's fear of never being able to live up to the Dalton name that our brothers set for us, when he was easily the better out of us two.

Fuck hockey. Fuck those assholes who thought writing about goddamn kids in high school was the place to be a condescending asshole.

Always thought the Daltons were overrated players, anyway.

Westly never even won a Stanley Cup.

Asher Dalton is trying to live up to big brother's skates and embarrassing him in the process. His entitled attitude is everything wrong with the NHL.

Bennett Dalton is going the exact way of big brother Asher—and I don't mean that as a compliment.

Emmett was the golden child of the Dalton duo, but even that didn't save him from scrutiny. So, Harrison asking for something "cool" when it comes to hockey? I can't separate anymore.

So, instead, I go for the douchey answer. "The coolest thing about hockey is the ice."

Harrison laughs, because of course he does—the guy laughs at anything. "You're a twit."

"Guilty."

"But maybe so am I because you were right: this sucks."

Like he's just given me permission, I dump the trash bag and fall back onto the couch. Harrison joins me.

"How the actual fuck do you guys have parties every week?"

"Well, it's not, like, every week. We have to make time to study and shit too."

"Still, if I had to deal with this much cleanup, I'd never have a party, ever."

"Prez will be up around lunchtime. If it's not done before he wakes up, then everyone will be dragged from their rooms to pitch in."

Harrison looks confused. "It doesn't piss you off that he's getting a lie-in while you deal with all of this?"

"Nah. We all have our place. Prez and Laurie—our treasurer—would have been up late after the party checking off the takings and notarizing everything. They also run all the meetings and shit that we have to show up to. Most people don't realize that fraternities answer to a national org. They're like little businesses. We have a cook who makes a shitload of meals and all that needs to be coordinated. Then there's rooming, rush, philanthropic events. Just, like … a lot. Prez handles all that. He has members who are also in charge of different things, and next year, I wanna be a Big. I've been spending a lot of time with the pledges to prepare for it, and sure, it seems shitty that they're the ones on cleaning duty, but it's because they're so green. They don't know about all the different responsibilities yet. Their only duty is to do what they're told, and the rest of us in the house, we've been there. We know not to take advantage, and for the few shitheads who step out of line and take things too far, the risk manager and Prez step in."

"Huh." Harrison rubs his jaw. "Like your own little social community. Or ecosystem."

I have no clue what he's talking about. "Sure."

"It's a lot more complex than it looks on the surface."

"Exactly. But the one thing we all have is brothership. We bond hard. We go through shit together. We know that any guy in this house will have our backs. DIK for life."

"I still have no idea how a national organization allowed the name DIK."

"Technically, it's Delta Iota Kappa."

"They knew what they were doing."

Those geniuses sure did. "Eh. Our school is literally FU. It's on all the sweatshirts. It's a crime that I don't have a FUKing DIK hoodie by now."

"But you're not a King."

"I'm not above sucking off the entire football team to make it happen."

"Talk about jaw cramps."

I swipe my tongue over my bottom lip, trying to tell myself not to tease him but not able to stop myself. "No jaw cramps for me. I've had a lot of practice."

He leans forward, and I'm unsure if he knows he's done it. "When you say a lot …"

"I'm gay. I'm living away from home, and turns out college is where queer guys get to be free, at least in places like this. There're gays after their first time, some living uncloseted, others who want to experiment freely as much as possible, and …" I nudge him. "A hell of a lot of straight dudes who want a taste. Present company excluded, of course."

Harrison frowns. "But … if they're straight. Why would they want to sleep with a dude?"

"That's the age-old question, right? Some people try to blow it off and say they're all secretly bi, but …" It's hard to put the next part into words without sounding like I don't care. "Some just really want to know how sex with a dude differs from sex with a chick. Others are open-minded and curious if they'd like it, some dudes think it's kinky, and the fuckwits of the experimentation world just get off on using gay men. I hate the saying that homophobes are all closeted because it's like people are excusing them. Giving them a reason. No, some people are just dicks. And those people like to fuck a man to show how much more powerful they are than them. It doesn't mean they're queer. I don't want those people as part of my community. It just means they're assholes." And now that I've gone off on that tangent, I shoot Harrison a quick smile. "I learned how to avoid those toxic types. In my experience, the straight guys I've slept with have been genuinely curious, and I was okay about helping them figure that side of themselves out."

"I've never considered people would do it for that reason. Like … just wanting to know. Being curious. I've?—"

He cuts off, and damn do I want to beg him to continue. But while I might still low-key flirt with him, it's just for fun, and I'm not going to cross any of his boundaries. That door is firmly closed in my mind. So, whatever he cut off is probably not something I want to hear anyway.

"We should keep cleaning," I say, trying to move the conversation away.

He agrees so quickly it makes me think he wants to do the same.