You're to Blame(15)

Most, including my brothers, would agree I don’t necessarily fit the bill of the average frat boy. My no-shit-giving attitude doesn’t stop at my personal life. The house is not exempt from my poor approach and outlook. The fraternity puts up with my shit though, based purely on my father and his wallet. I’d have to go outlaw on their rules to get a boot up my ass. Instead, I go along with the antics, offering a hand every so often to feign interest.

The only thing I do take seriously is my classes. They’re my one chance to make something of myself without having to sling the last name Anderson around to get what I want. I came to Greystone on my father’s back. He’s alumni and a member of one of the most prestigious classes to come through Sigma Nu. I’m a legacy, which offers me some advantages in life.

“Hey, man!” Greg, our president, calls from the main living room. The cocky son of a bitch gossips more than most women.

My chin lifts in his direction, and I drift through the thick crowd, offering a few hellos, until I find Derks in the kitchen.

“What’s up?” I say, not noticing our current company.

“There he is.”

This is the last voice I expect to hear. What the actual fuck is he doing here? My gaze darts around the room, searching for an escape I know isn’t an option. He’s seen me, and now, we get to do the dance. He hasn’t been to anything in months, and now, all of a sudden, he’s interested? Why can’t he just send his checks and not show his face? It’s what we’d all prefer.

Derks offers a silent apology. His head tilts to the side, gesturing towards the poker table. I need to take care in my next steps. Derks and I both understand the situation we are in.

This asshole behind my back is the last thing I need. He’d stab his own mother if it benefited him in any way. He offers his hand, and we shake like old friends, but we both know we couldn’t be further away.

Ari St. James’ handshake is what it is. Tight. Aggressive. A quiet warning to be careful where I go with our conversation.

“Here I am, Ari.”

“Don’t get all worked up,” he demands, kicking out the chair across from him for me to sit. Ari’s small stature somehow takes up the entire room.

“Nothing to get worked up about.” Blood pounds in my ears. This is the lion’s den, and I’m holding a damn steak in my hand.

Ari’s reputation is bad news across the board. Most of the time, he hides it behind a smiling face for the university and an open wallet when he deems pertinent. What the community doesn’t know is how he can afford to pay for a new basketball court and library. Not everyone is in the dark, though. I know. Derks knows. It’s why we tolerate his bullshit. The alternative gets us nowhere but hurt. Meanwhile, the rest of these assholes fawn at his feet like he’s the fucking Pope.

“How’s our boy?” Ari scoops up his stack of black chips and drops them into a pile in front of him. His nearly black eyes assess me.

“You mean Jacob?” I ask. “How do you think he’s doing, Ari?”

“My guess is” —he raises an eyebrow— “he’s awfully quiet.” He’s playing with me like I’m a new toy. He’ll twist and turn until I break.

“And why do you think that?” My chair slides back, grinding on the wood floor from the force of my push. My vision clouds as I tower over the table, challenging him to say one more thing.

“Again, don’t get all worked up, Duke.” His hand ghosts between us. “We’re just having a little chat.” He exchanges amused glances with the goons around him. They aren’t brothers, but Ari St. James gets to do whatever he wants, both in this house and outside of it.

“You’re a sick son of a bitch.” I jab a finger at his chest. I’d give anything to rip this asshole’s life in half, but he’s untouchable. Much like my father. They’re lethal in their choices, not taking anyone else into consideration just as long as they get what they want.

Ari sneers with disgust at my finger. The feeling is mutual. “Is that any way to treat one of your brothers?”

A hand grips my shoulder. Unlike the piece of shit in front of me, the person behind me is an actual brother. Derks’ attempt to calm me is futile. Two more seconds, and I’ll lose any sense of patience I had when I walked through the doors.

“Just so we’re clear” —I rest my hands on the poker table— “under this roof, I may be considered your brother, but out there, I’d never waste a drop of water to put a fire out around your ass.”

Derks steps beside me. Distance is what I need before I make a split decision and lunge at this fucker. Ari’s menacing chuckle taunts me, and my fists clench at my side. I glare at Ari dead in the eyes and aim to leave, but he’s quicker. He slips in front of me, blocking my escape.

He circles his hand to the back of my neck and squeezes. I pull against his hold, and his grip tightens. “It’s funny because, to me, that sounds like a threat.”

“Take it as whatever you damn well please, Ari,” I growl. I jerk to the right, and his hand drops. Neither of us are willing to look away. His nostrils flair with undeniable anger, matching my own.

“Okay, fellas, enough.” Derks’ eyes plead with me to listen. “Duke, I forgot I need you to run to the bar. Check the temps on the fridge. Lydia won’t remember.”