We just have to abide by the rules and make it through the rush week new member period, which is also the entirety of the fall semester. However, I’ve heard that some legacies are initiated faster than others and don’t have to wait until the end of the semester.
The only thing that bothers me is this whole dry period, especially before classes start. Don’t they know this is the week you want to get the most hammered when there are no responsibilities at the moment?
I would also like to start fucking my way through Frat Row and get with a brother from every fraternity house. I heard you get a badge for achieving that, and I plan on getting mine.
They torture us like this because they think there will be less of a chance that the girls who are rushing will be able to talk to other rushes or even people who aren’t rushing. No secrets are supposed to be exposed, and if they learn that you told someone, you are immediately kicked out of the rush process, no questions asked, and you won’t be able to rush the following year. Since some of us are legacies, we know more than the average person rushing, so honestly, the whole thing is bullshit. Things like initiation and other rituals aren’t known to Blair and me. Mymom never shared even the slightest detail. They are intended to be shared only with initiated sisters.
It’s a complete week of hell, especially for someone like me. I would call myself more of an introvert than an extrovert. Blair brings out the extroverted side of me and always has. Another rule is that we aren’t allowed to go out to bars or clubs even if we don’t drink. We can’t even grab lunch or dinner at a restaurant in case we run into other girls who are rushing and could be tempted to talk about the process.
So, it looks like it’s a week of DoorDash and Uber Eats for me and Blair; I’m not going to complain about that since neither one of us can cook. I’m honestly surprised Blair can boil water or turn on a stove.
I’m already annoyed at the thought of this upcoming week and the number of times I’m going to have to repeatedly open my mouth and use my voice to the point of losing it, which most people do. There’s event after event, but at least I’ll have Blair at the end of the day to laugh through the pain and exhaustion.
I couldn’t imagine rushing alone and not having anyone to vent to about the entire process. Plus, every day has a different theme, so you have to dress accordingly; otherwise, you’ll look like an oddball. I’m almost positive they write your name down because there’s a rumor that they have some kind of point system.
After straightening myself up in the alleyway, I smile, happy with the way I look. With my head held high, I take in a deep breath of fresh air and make my way toward the door that leads back into the club. Thankfully, it is dark, and no one notices me. Looking around, I search for my best friend. Of course, knowing her and her promiscuous, sultry ways, I’m willing to bet she’s dry-humping a random guy—or multiple—on the dance floor. We pre-gamed in our apartment before we got here, downing a few shots of Fireball, so I know she must be at least a little tipsy,if not leaning more toward being on the drunk side. That could only mean one thing—loud and flirty Blair comes out to play, and it is a sight to behold since she is only 5’3” and has a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude. I roll my eyes thinking about it and how many times I’ve had to coerce her into leaving a party, bar, or club. I always make sure to form a quick mental list of all her great qualities and why I love her, so I don’t lose my cool. I try to be as patient as possible, knowing it’s just the alcohol taking over the way she acts.
It’s so dark in here that you can barely see your hands and feet right in front of you. The walls are painted black, and there are neon strobe lights on the ceiling. The DJ is in the corner, playing music so loud that you can barely have a conversation or think clearly. So many shady things happen in this club that it would make your head spin. You could essentially fuck or have an orgy in the middle of the club, and no one would see you, and if they did, they wouldn’t bat an eye. I heard it’s allowed, and if anything, the employees love a good show, just like everyone else here. I push my way toward the dance floor, bumping into a lot of people and apologizing more times than I can count. I’m attempting to get to the dance floor in the back right corner of the club that I saw when we first arrived.
Yay for muscle memory!
The club floor is made of dark gray concrete, while the dance floor features outdated laminate with scuff marks, which you can kind of see if a strobe light hits it. My eyesight is already dreadful, so while feeling for the change in flooring, I stumble in my five-inch heels but recover quickly.
I spot Blair instantly. She’s gorgeous, with platinum blonde hair, blue eyes, tanned skin, and a body that men—and women—fantasize about. Tonight, she is in her strappy light blue dress that barely covers her ass with matching heels that lace up to her mid-thigh. I’ve always been jealous of her shorter height. I’m5’7", so most of the time, I tower over a majority of men when I wear my super high heels.
In true Blair fashion, she’s not dry-humping one guy but sandwiched between two guys and dancing to Jack Harlow’s new song. Both the guys dancing with her and those surrounding her are absolutely mesmerized, just praying for a turn and salivating over her. She never notices all of the attention and genuinely couldn’t care less. She’s always ready for a good time, and it doesn’t have to be for a long time.
Quickly, I snag her tiny elbow, pull her over to the bar, and whisper excitedly where only she can hear, “Listen, I figured out a way into The Dungeon’s basement, but we have to go right now.”
CHAPTER THREE
Blair’s eyes turn into saucers with disbelief, and her jaw hangs open. She knows, like everyone else, it’s next to impossible to get access to the basement, and the people who have been down there don’t ever discuss what it’s like. Of course, this made me want to find out for myself even more, and I’m towing my best friend with me in these shenanigans, as always. Since we met, we’ve given our mothers gray hair.
She quietly squeals, “Let’s go, skank, lead the way!”
She forcefully shoves one of the drinks she has into my hand, our favorite—vodka and club soda. Not shockingly, she had a drink in each hand while dancing. I’m sure one of her dance partners was more than happy to supply her with more alcohol. Idown it as swiftly as possible, tasting primarily vodka, not soda, and it instantly calms my nerves.
She reaches for my hand, and we set off toward a door located behind the bar that blends in with the wall. It has a black knob and a vintage-looking key lock, which tells me not many people have access. It’s so concealed in the wall that you’d have to know about it already or be purposefully looking for it. The area in front of the door is always guarded by at least two security guards, who appear as inconspicuous as possible. But even partly tipsy, I can tell they guard one area and never leave their posts. Sucking off the security guard earlier definitely paid off since he told me where to go and is letting us into a place few people have ever been.
The security guard I had my special time with earlier is standing by the door. He winks at me with an overconfident, smug look on his face, looks around, turns, and punches in a four-digit code, the door cracking open just a few inches. He hurriedly opens it enough to slide through and gestures to us with two fingers to quickly follow behind him.
There’s a small black booth completely blacked out with the most miserable-looking man I’ve seen here. Maybe I would be, too, if everything was black. This part of the club is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The lighting is dim, likely to conceal the identities of people entering and exiting the basement. There are four people ahead of us, and I don’t even bother looking at them because I don’t want it to seem like this is my first time. I do try to look at what the man is collecting, and it’s definitely not coats or umbrellas.
“No cellphones allowed past this point, so hand them over.” Another guard comes out of what feels like the wall, making me jump with his raspy voice.
It’s a cellphone check booth, which makes sense since I’ve never seen any pictures of this place online. He pulls out oneof the many plastic boxes, and there must be at least fifty or more phones in it. He passes us cards to fill out so they can be returned to us later. We fill them out, and he tapes them on our cellphones, tossing them into the box.
“Straight down the stairs, you can’t miss it.” He smiles maliciously like he can sniff out first-timers.
Blair and I look at each other quizzically, and for a moment, we kind of second-guess this decision. My body is buzzing; I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or the tension of feeling unsure about this whole decision.
“I’m getting kind of nervous now,” I blurt out.
“That’s just excitement for the unknown. If we aren’t into it, we’ll give it a solid 15 minutes and then just leave as fast as possible,” Blair whispers to me.
I clamp onto her arm for dear life, and we start to descend the dark stairs that are lit by dull yellow Victorian lights all the way to the bottom, with a deep forest green railing on both sides. The wallpaper is made of black velvet, making it even more eerie.
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, my jaw falls open, and it feels like we’ve entered Narnia’s wardrobe because this is entirely different from what we saw upstairs.
