The Scammer(59)

Of course, the police found drugs in the frat house, but just weed. Nothing as damning as what they expected or what was anonymously reported. The police only arrested one person. But that’s enough to cause a fraternity uproar. The frat brothers are downstairs shouting at one another. I listen for Nick’s voice in the fray, a voice of reason, but he’s silent.

Devonte did this. If not him directly, one of his people made the phony call. They know I’m here and are doing anything to smoke me out until I come crawling back. But to bring Nick into this, his frat . . . I don’t want anyone else to be hurt because of me. Enough is enough.

I whip out my phone.

Me: Kammy, we need to talk. Tomorrow.



I stuff the proof I need to show Kammy in my book bag. Pages of documents disproving about 90 percent of what Devonte has told us. If this isn’t enough to make her come to her senses, I’ll pull out the big guns. Then I’ll head to Student Housing.

Nick enters the room, face blanched, shoulders sagging. I jump to my feet.

“Are you okay?”

He takes a deep breath. “Put on your shoes. We’re going out.”



* * *




“I’ll have a cheeseburger deluxe, medium rare with sweet potato fries. And a Coke.”

Nick passes his sticky menu back to the waitress before she turns her attention to me. I lick my lips, sitting up straighter.

“I’ll, um, have the sprout salad. Water with lemon, no ice.”

The waitress seems unfazed by our polar-opposite orders, collecting my menu and heading back to the kitchen of a Georgetown pub to rush in our orders before it closes at two a.m.

“Medium rare?” I gag, cleaning my utensils with a paper napkin. “Why don’t you just eat it raw out of the package, you animal.”

The corner of his lips pull up to a smirk. “This place has the best burgers in the city. I could’ve grabbed some grass outside and thrown it on a plate if you wanted a salad.”

Nick and I sit in a booth in the far back of the pub, away from the sticky-surfaced bar full of drunken white college students. Frazier can make you forget that Washington, DC, is not only home to politics but at least four other universities. It’s like the whole world disappears the moment you step on campus, entering a Black utopia.

“So,” I say, rubbing my arms. “Your brothers are blaming you for the raid?”

He twists a straw wrapper between his fingers. “You and me both, yep.”

I wince. “Seriously?”

“Oh they know you’re the problem. No one would dare set up the frat except crazy people. And your bunch are the only crazy people on campus.”

“So what happens now?”

He shrugs. “You’re my girlfriend, so they’re not gonna kick you out. They’re just . . . letting off some steam. I may get my ass whooped later though.”

“Nick!”

He waves a hand. “It’s fine. I can take getting yelled at. I’ve been getting yelled at all my life.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You never told me . . . What did your parents think when you said you were going to Frazier U?”

He sighs. “They didn’t give a shit.”

My mouth forms an “oh” as I fidget with the silverware.

He rolls his eyes. “I’m what you call an ‘oops’ baby. My parents had me when they were just shy of fifty.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah. They were ready to enter that sweet empty-nester stage in their life. Then I come along and ruin their plans. Needless to say, we are not close.”

“Empty nester? So they had kids before you?”

He nods. “Two boys and a girl. Then me.”

Interesting. I don’t imagine Nick with siblings. Then again, he doesn’t give me only-child vibes. More loner.

The waitress appears with two shots of brown-yellow liquor.

“Drinks on the house!”

I start to argue but Nick takes the shot and holds it up to me. “What are we toasting to?”

I join him. “I guess . . . to not having drugs in the frat house?”

Nick barks out a laugh.

We knock back our shots on three, the liquor smooth, tasting like honey.

“So other than you,” Nick says, “and your brother . . . did your parents have any more kids or plan to?”

“No. It was just us. A boy and a girl, that’s all they wanted.”

Nick folds his hands. “What . . . happened to your brother?”

I don’t know why I tell him. Maybe the last week and the alcohol has made me weak to the point that I blurt out the truth.

“He killed himself.”

Nick straightens. I have his full attention.

“He was two years older than me,” I continue. “But we were best friends. Everyone loved him. Voted most likely to succeed in high school. Then he went to college and things . . . changed. College changed him. Which everyone said it would . . . but this was different. There were no warning signs that he was in trouble. It just didn’t make sense. It still doesn’t.”

I wait, expecting the typical “I’m so sorry” or “That must have been so hard, prayers to your family,” the regular clichéd crap. Nick just listens. That leaves some space to be myself.