Frankie shook his head. “Trevor’s a punk, everyone knows that. But what you did is illegal, Mint. Trevor could press charges.” He took a deep breath. “And Jack found out. He’s really upset. He’s going to call an officers’ meeting.”
Mint thought of his friend—the Phi Delt treasurer, a regular Leave-It-to-Beaver. Always on the brothers’ case about completing their philanthropy hours or recycling beer cans. “So what? I’ll talk to him.”
“You don’t get it. Jack doesn’t think it would be fair for you to get away with hurting Trevor like that. He says it sets a bad example for the guys, and the frat might be liable, and who’s going to pay Trevor’s medical bills, and—”
“Since when are you and Jack powwowing about me in secret? And since when is Jack the fucking morality police? I thought you guys were supposed to have my back.”
The look Frankie gave him was grave. “I do. That’s why I’m telling you. Look, I don’t want to ruin your night, but I honestly think Jack might report it to the cops. He’s really worked up.”
The fire inside Mint flashed white-hot. “Are you kidding?” Jack was supposed to be one of his best friends. And he was going to betray him? Rat him out to the police over Trevor? “Tell Jack he can suck my dick.”
Frankie choked, dropping his beer.
Mint blew out a breath, watching Frankie scramble, wiping the spilled beer. “Sorry, Frankie. Jack just doesn’t get it. Not like you do.” Frankie stood, tossing his Solo cup away, and Mint bumped his shoulder. “Sometimes you have to stop taking shit from people and lay down the law. Be a man about it. You know what I mean.”
Frankie nodded, but his eyes caught on something across the room. Mint followed his gaze and saw Heather stumbling down the staircase, her face tearstained. Instead of sympathy, the fire inside Mint roared with approval. That was exactly the face he wanted Jessica to wear when he ground her into the dirt in front of everyone.
He put a hand on Frankie’s shoulder. “Look, I’ll talk to Jack. Sort it out.”
“You promise? Because I really don’t want you two fighting. I hate it.”
Mint squeezed his shoulder. “I swear. I’ll make amends.” Fuck Jack, that goody-two-shoes wet blanket. “But first, we celebrate.” He gestured at the row of whiskey bottles. “It’s our last Sweetheart ever. You’re about to get drafted into the NFL, I’m going to law school”—Mint took a breath, letting the flicker of painful uncertainty pass, and pressed on—“and we only have one semester left to get crazy. It’s time to cement our legacy.”
Frankie’s eyes returned to Heather. She was in the corner, talking to Courtney, and it seemed to satisfy Frankie’s concern. He grinned at Mint. “You know I can’t say no to that.”
“And,” Mint added, drawing the baggie out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket, “I picked up a little something from Coop earlier. This’ll take us over the edge. Now that the season is over, and you don’t have to worry about drug tests, we can do anything.”
Frankie groaned. “I have been waiting four years for the damn season to be over. You have no idea.”
Mint nodded, running a hand through his hair. He was flying high now, his wingman by his side. “No more rules. Time to cut loose.”
Frankie handed him a shot glass, then knocked it with his own. “Here’s to Mint, in rare form. And to a wild fucking night.”
***
They’d taken round after round of shots, plus Coop’s pill, and Mint was just getting started. He was filled with a nervous energy, keeping one eye on the staircase, waiting for Jess to show, or even Jack, his hands twitching in anticipation.
“Hold up a second,” Frankie mumbled, dropping an empty Solo cup on the floor. “I need to talk to Courtney.”
Courtney? But Mint only shrugged. “Whatever. Just don’t leave me hanging too long.”
Frankie strode off and disappeared somewhere, neither Courtney nor Heather in sight. Great. Now he was standing here alone like a loser.
Out of the corner of his eye, Mint sensed movement. He turned to find Charles Smith circling him, walking back and forth in front of the keg. Charles: lacrosse douchebag and Trevor’s bulldog. Worst of all: his parents were friends of Mint’s, back in the city.
How much did Charles know?
The look in Charles’s eyes was clear. He was bruising for a fight, and he thought that would intimidate Mint. But Mint wasn’t weak. He was drunk, the concrete wobbling under his feet. But he wasn’t soft. He’d show Charles, just like he’d shown Trevor.