She sends a kissy face emoji, which for her is just a friendly way of saying goodbye, and I wait to see if she sends another text.
When she doesn’t and my screen goes dark, I toss my phone on my bed and let out a heavy sigh.
I’m not in the mood to go to a party tonight, but it’s either go or spend the night alone in my room, and that’s an even less appealing option.
Normally I’d convince West to skip the party with me and do something else, but just like every weekend since his engagement, he’s off campus with McKenna.
I don’t know why, but I haven’t felt like myself since the semester started. I’m not depressed or anxious or anything like that, but things just don’t hit the same as they used to. Everything is justmehlately.
Peopleing is even more of a chore now, and I leave parties and events feeling drained and on edge. And I have even less patience for the everyday shit that goes on in the frat than usual.
And it’s not just social stuff that’s getting harder to deal with. I’ve always been able to get decent grades without studying or even trying, but I’ve been struggling to stay focused and keep on top of my workload, and my professors and TAs are starting to notice.
Even my usual vices aren’t doing it for me anymore, and I’ve had zero interest in hooking up with anyone, even though I’m never short on offers when I do venture out.
Maybe whatever is going on is because school is almost over and I only have a few months of freedom left before I have to be an adult and start working for my father.
Grimacing, I go into my closet and flip through a rack of my clothes to pick out something to wear. I don’t want to think about my father or my future right now, or ever, really. But definitely not now.
To say my father and I have a strained relationship would be the understatement of the century, and even though he’s given me opportunities and connections that people will literally kill for, it doesn’t erase the fact that he knocked up my mom when she was a teenager and he was a grown ass adult, or that he ignored me for the first eleven years of my life.
The only reason I’m even here and taking over the family business like a good heir is because of my sisters. I don’t give a flying fuck about any of this shit, but I love them, and I’ll do whatever it takes to stay in their lives.
They’re the only family I have left.
Pushing those thoughts out of my head, I flip through the small cluster of hangers on the rack.
Unlike most people at school, I don’t give a shit about fashion. I also hate shopping, so I don’t have a lot of clothes compared to my peers. It makes my life easier, and since I’ve had the same style since I was in high school, I don’t need to constantly update my wardrobe like the fashionistas I’m surrounded by do.
After going through my meager collection of shirts and pants, I pull a white button-up and a pair of black slim-fit pants off the rack, then grab a fresh pair of black socks and black underwear from the shelves.
The annual Baxter House anti-Valentine’s party, or the Baxter AV party as most people call it, has a simple standing dress code of black and white. It doesn’t matter what you wear,but each individual piece of clothing, including shoes, can only be solid white or solid black.
Stripping off my clothes, I toss them aside and pull on my party outfit. I showered before I went to the library, so there’s no point taking another one. And this way I won’t be tempted to jerk off to memories of a thick cock in my mouth and strong hands running through my hair while I’m under the spray.
Ignoring where my thoughts went, which is where they end up most of the time when I’m in the shower or lying in my bed at night, I go to my desk and pick up the white Venetian mask I ordered.
Just like some of the other more hedonistic events around campus, the most notable being the famous Rapture party the Rebels hold every year, the Baxter AV party has a mask requirement. There’s no rule about keeping them on once you’re inside, but you can’t get through the door without one.
Tossing the mask on my bed as I pass it, I do one last fit check in the mirror.
Even with my resting bitch face, I look good. The white shirt is just tight enough to cling to my muscles without pulling or gaping at all, and the crisp color contrasts nicely with my dark hair and makes my eyes pop. The slim-fit pants I chose emphasize my thighs and ass, and the slightly shiny material gives them a bit of texture when they catch the light. I left the top two buttons on my shirt open, and the silver chain around my neck and the black edges of my chest tattoo peeking out from the open material draw attention to not just my ink, but also my piercings, giving me a look that’s both dangerous and put together. Like a sexy CEO relaxing after a long day.
I snort-laugh and finish rolling up my sleeves. At least I don’t have to worry about my self-esteem taking a beating while I’m in my funk.
It’s still cold enough that I pull on my jacket, and I slip my ID, my room key, and the stupid mask in my pockets. Then I swipe my phone up from my bed and check the battery on it. It’s just under seventy percent, so I don’t bother plugging it in and put it in my bedside table.
Phones and any sort of recording devices are forbidden at these types of parties, and the punishment for breaking the rules is steep. Like the rest of the attendees, I’ve already signed a contract agreeing to the house rules, and I signed an NDA. The guarantee of privacy is one of the biggest draws for these types of events, and the invite-only guest list doesn’t hurt either. It keeps the gatherings relatively small, and that makes them more tolerable since there are fewer people to deal with.
I might not be accepted by most students, but my father’s name and influence mean I get invited to most of the exclusive events on campus. I used to really dislike how the same people who’d talk shit about me behind my back would then turn around and smile to my face and invite me to their parties because they didn’t want to risk pissing off my father, but after years of dealing with this crap, it doesn’t bother me anymore.
I already know most people here are two-faced assholes, but at least this way I have access to an endless supply of top-shelf party favors and can get my dick wet whenever I want.
Hopefully I can shake off whatever has been dragging me down and enjoy both of those perks tonight.
“Name,” a bored-looking guard asks, giving me an appraising look as he stands in the doorway of Baxter House.
“Damon Cosgrove.”
