In My Dreams I Hold a Knife(83)
Ever since he’d given it an outlet, the fire inside him was under control. No longer a raging storm but a simmer in the center of him, hungry and waiting, biding its time.
Sweetheart was going to be Mint’s crowning glory. Thanks to money his parents had thrown into the party fund—a check cashed before the market crashed, thank Christ—this year’s Sweetheart was bigger and better than ever. The best band booked, Party Pics ready to snap their pictures like a crowd of paparazzi, pledges dressed in humiliating cupid costumes, handles of whiskey for every couple. All of it evidence of Mint’s generosity, his power as Phi Delt president.
Even better: Jessica would be here soon, all dolled up. She’d be expecting romance—it was Valentine’s Day, after all. She’d be soft and pliant, and at the perfect moment, when they were in the very center of the crowd, he’d hit her with it: he knew. He’d make her beg to be taken back, make her cry in front of the whole party, and then he’d turn his back and tell her it was over, that she disgusted him. It would be the perfect drama, something to show everyone Mint was strong and unyielding, no chump. No, he was a prize lost at great cost. No one would be able to laugh at him again.
He tugged his pink bow tie, straightening the corners. He would do everything his father should have done, fix his mistakes. The fire inside him rose higher, crackling, eager for it.
Frankie bound down the stairs into the basement and beelined for him. “Hey, we need to talk.”
Mint handed a keg beer to Frankie, eyeing the pulled seams of his suit—the same he’d worn since freshman year. “Let me guess. You’re finally taking me up on the offer to see my tailor?”
Frankie waved a hand. “Do you see the younger guys giving you weird looks? Like they’re about to piss their pants?”
It was true. Where Mint and Frankie stood had become the nexus of the basement, the sun in the center of the party. Everyone orbited them, eyeing them with an assortment of expressions—fear, desire, calculation.
Mint shrugged, taking a sip of his own beer to hide his smile. “I might have asserted myself a little forcefully earlier today.”
Frankie’s brow furrowed. “A little forcefully? You broke Trevor’s cheekbone.”
“He was out of line.” Mint spoke like he couldn’t care less, was already over it. “You know how he gets. It was finally a bridge too far.”
Frankie shook his head. “Trevor’s a punk, everyone knows that. But what you did is illegal, Mint. Trevor could press charges.” He took a deep breath. “And Jack found out. He’s really upset. He’s going to call an officers’ meeting.”
Mint thought of his friend—the Phi Delt treasurer, a regular Leave-It-to-Beaver. Always on the brothers’ case about completing their philanthropy hours or recycling beer cans. “So what? I’ll talk to him.”
“You don’t get it. Jack doesn’t think it would be fair for you to get away with hurting Trevor like that. He says it sets a bad example for the guys, and the frat might be liable, and who’s going to pay Trevor’s medical bills, and—”
“Since when are you and Jack powwowing about me in secret? And since when is Jack the fucking morality police? I thought you guys were supposed to have my back.”
The look Frankie gave him was grave. “I do. That’s why I’m telling you. Look, I don’t want to ruin your night, but I honestly think Jack might report it to the cops. He’s really worked up.”
The fire inside Mint flashed white-hot. “Are you kidding?” Jack was supposed to be one of his best friends. And he was going to betray him? Rat him out to the police over Trevor? “Tell Jack he can suck my dick.”
Frankie choked, dropping his beer.
Mint blew out a breath, watching Frankie scramble, wiping the spilled beer. “Sorry, Frankie. Jack just doesn’t get it. Not like you do.” Frankie stood, tossing his Solo cup away, and Mint bumped his shoulder. “Sometimes you have to stop taking shit from people and lay down the law. Be a man about it. You know what I mean.”
Frankie nodded, but his eyes caught on something across the room. Mint followed his gaze and saw Heather stumbling down the staircase, her face tearstained. Instead of sympathy, the fire inside Mint roared with approval. That was exactly the face he wanted Jessica to wear when he ground her into the dirt in front of everyone.
He put a hand on Frankie’s shoulder. “Look, I’ll talk to Jack. Sort it out.”
“You promise? Because I really don’t want you two fighting. I hate it.”
Mint squeezed his shoulder. “I swear. I’ll make amends.” Fuck Jack, that goody-two-shoes wet blanket. “But first, we celebrate.” He gestured at the row of whiskey bottles. “It’s our last Sweetheart ever. You’re about to get drafted into the NFL, I’m going to law school”—Mint took a breath, letting the flicker of painful uncertainty pass, and pressed on—“and we only have one semester left to get crazy. It’s time to cement our legacy.”
Frankie’s eyes returned to Heather. She was in the corner, talking to Courtney, and it seemed to satisfy Frankie’s concern. He grinned at Mint. “You know I can’t say no to that.”
“And,” Mint added, drawing the baggie out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket, “I picked up a little something from Coop earlier. This’ll take us over the edge. Now that the season is over, and you don’t have to worry about drug tests, we can do anything.”