The Scammer(29)

“What the fuck?”

“What is it ? A mouse?” Brianna cries, hopping in place.

A sneaker pokes out. Mixed in with the coats . . . is a body, lying face down in the middle of the bed. But not just any body . . . I would recognize his blond hair anywhere.

“Nick?” I say, shaking his leg. “Come on, wake up. We need our coats.”

Mercy and Brianna bust out laughing. “Damn, White Boy Nick is White Boy Wasted!”

Nick doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch.

“Nick, this isn’t funny, come on!” I shake him harder, turning him onto his back. Nick’s mouth hangs open, eyes still shut tight. I shake his shoulder, his skin sweaty.

“OMG! He’s out cold. Maybe we should find his roommate, brothers, or something?”

Brianna nods in agreement. But a sly smile spreads across Mercy’s face.

“Orrr . . . maybe we should check things out.”

I stand up, suddenly on guard. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs, feigning innocence but eyeing his belt buckle. “I always wonder what white boys . . . you know, looked like.”

Brianna catches her meaning and cackles. “Girl, what? You bugging.”

“Oh, come on, you’re not a little bit curious to just . . . see it?” She wiggles her fingers in his direction.

Heat rises to my neck.

“He’s unconscious,” I point out. Though I can’t imagine he’d want girls touching him inappropriately either way.

“Girl, relax. We’re not raping him or nothing,” Mercy says.

The word makes me flinch. He can’t give consent. He can’t even fight them off. This isn’t right.

And if he was a girl . . .

Mercy reaches and I instinctually, block her way.

“Don’t touch him,” I spit, my voice low but firm.

Mercy recoils, the heat behind my words startling. But then, she regains her composure, and crosses her arms, neck rolling.

“Or what? What are you going to do?”

Brianna’s eyes toggle between us, the tension palpable.

“Girl, we’re just taking a sneak peek,” Brianna says, with a laugh. “It’s no big deal!”

My hands bunch into fists, my heart a racehorse. I may have to fight these girls off him. I’ve never fought anyone in my life and I probably won’t make it out unscathed. But there’s no way I’m letting them touch him.

Mercy must come to the same conclusion. She flips her hair, eyes rolling.

“Whatever,” she hisses, snatching a nearby jacket, and storms out of the room. Brianna throws me a confused glare.

“You trippin’,” she mumbles, combing through the pile. “It ain’t even that serious.”

She finds a blue tweed coat and slams the door behind her. It takes me five full seconds to release the breath I’ve been holding, my muscles aching from the anticipation.

Quickly, I climb onto the bed, hovering over him.

“Nick. Wake up. Come on!”

I pat his face a few times, but he only stirs. How much did he have to drink?

I can’t do this alone. I need reinforcements. But as soon as I touch the bedroom doorknob, I remember who’s out there. Just about everyone from student government. And Devonte.

Drool slides out the side of his mouth, noises gurgling up. By now, Mercy and Brianna have probably told people he’s back here. He’s the president of Arts and Sciences. He has a code he has to follow, even off campus. And I know he’s interested in another officer position. Word of mouth is everything. I can’t let them see him like this.

I run back to the bed, shaking him.

“Nick, what dorm are you in? We gotta get you out of here,” I say, pulling him to his feet, checking his pockets for a dorm fob. He must live off campus. He slumps into my arms, weighing a thousand pounds. I struggle to keep him up before looking over at the patio doors.

Me: Hey, not feeling well. Took a cab home.

Loren: What? Why didn’t you wait for me?

Me: Cause I had to ?

Vanessa: Ew girl. Ok. We’ll take our time coming home then.



The cabdriver has a nasty attitude, but I don’t blame him. The last thing anyone wants is some drunken college students in the back of their car.

But Nick doesn’t throw up. He leans against the door, his mouth ajar, and I check several times to see if he is still breathing. I’m surprised the liquor slushing around his belly doesn’t run up his throat during the ride.

I pull Nick out of the cab, his legs more stable than when I pushed him off the patio. I’m able to maneuver him inside into the elevators with few witnesses.

In the suite, Kammy’s door is closed but music hums through the walls. I quickly rush Nick into my room, dumping him on the bed.

“Nick,” I whisper, with more pats to the face. But he’s out cold again.

This is ridiculous.

Exhaustion overwhelms me. I snatch the comforter and pillow off my bed, lie on the floor, and close my eyes.



* * *




The sound of jiggling metal wakes me. The room is still pitch-dark. Nick’s arm is draped over the side of the bed, unmoving. I check if he’s breathing. He’s still unresponsive.

Jiggling again.

Light from the common area leaks through the sweep. Someone is standing in front of my door, their shadow stretching into my room. The handle twists with a frustrated yank as if it was expected to be unlocked.