Stepbrother Wow! (Bad Boy Frat #1) Read online

  STEPBROTHER WOW

  The Stepbrother Romance Series Book #1

  BAD BOY FRAT

  By Claire Adams

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams

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  CHAPTER 1

  “Yo, Donnie—what do you think she’s packing? Cs, Ds?” I rolled my eyes at the question from Alex, as the camera panned over the line of cheerleaders on the sidelines of a Dolphins-Jets game.

  “Cs. Not full enough for Ds,” I replied, sparing Donnie the trouble. It amused the hell out of me that none of the boys in Phi Kappa Alpha had managed to decode bra sizes and what they meant. All they knew was that C and D were “big.” It was funny—to me at least—when I could poke holes in their stories about making it with a girl with “Total double Ds, man,” by pointing out that I knew for a fact that whichever girl they were referring to was a C-cup or in some cases even a B.

  While the handful of guys on the couch with me were watching the game, they were also talking about the upcoming party. Phi Kappa Alpha had a reputation to maintain, and they were only too aware of it; they never wanted to have a party that was too much of a repeat of a previous one—at least not one that had happened in the same school year. The rest of the members of the frat were either in classes, out with girlfriends, or on a beer and supplies run. A couple of the guys in the living room with me were upperclassmen, seniors in the frat; a couple of them were rushes, and a few had graduated to full frat membership. They were working their way up the ranks in status and eager to prove that they were just as capable of planning a rager as anyone in the upper echelons of the fraternity.

  “Hula theme is overplayed,” Fred, one of the seniors, was saying. “We need something no one’s done yet, something that’ll stand out.” I shrugged as the rest of the guys called out ideas—a Disney party to encourage girls to show up in slutty princess outfits, or a hip-hop party, a kid-themed party with bounce castles set up on the front lawn. They came up with a couple dozen ideas in total, some of which were creative but not exactly realistic, some completely horrible, and some mediocre or overused by other frats, hoping to cash in on Phi Kappa’s popularity.

  “I have a great idea, hear me out,” Jeremy said from a few feet away from me. I glanced in his direction; it was thanks to him that I was on the couch in the middle of a frat in the first place. “We could throw—a Communist Party!” His suggestion was met with scattered boos around the room. “Seriously, hear me out on this.”

  “Don’t bring that freshman World History bullshit in here,” Rodney called out.

  “It’s cause he’s fucking that Eastern Block chick, Svetlana or whatever her name is.”

  “Dude, she’s hot though, can you blame him?”

  “Seriously guys,” Jeremy said, shouting to drown out their comments. “Here’s how you could do it: make everyone come dressed in red, right?” Fred nodded, raising a hand to silence the others talking over their brother. “Have vodka and rum drinks, make everyone bring something—like a mixer or something like that—but they can’t drink what they brought, they have to drink what someone else brought.” Slowly the tide of opinion was changing, going in favor of Jeremy’s idea. “You could have Cuban sandwiches, whatever they eat in Russia.”

  I laughed. “Have everyone get in a line when they arrive, give them a slice of bread,” I called out. The people who had already decided in favor of Jeremy’s idea shouted approval.

  “Right! Right! And like, you could have commie-themed punch or something, something Cold War.”

  “Give people a ration card for their drinks,” one of the history buffs suggested. “Of course, girls get an extra three or four punches on their cards…” I rolled my eyes as everyone around me started hooting their agreement with that idea.

  “How many punches does Mia get?” the guy sitting next to me, Robbie, asked.

  “Same as a guy,” Rodney said.

  “Give her two cards—one for a guy and one for a girl. See which one she fills up first.” Everyone in the frat knew I was a girl, of course; but they’d adopted me as one of their own. If it weren’t for the restrictions on membership, they’d have taken me on as a pledge—and one of the seniors had suggested I join the sister sorority so I could work with them and hang out with them in an official capacity. But the idea of living in a house with fifty girls, synching up my period with them or having to go get my nails done every other week just didn’t appeal to me. So I’d become the unofficial mascot of the Phi Kappa Alpha frat, always there and one of the guys, but not an official member. It was better than hanging in my dorm, that was for sure.

  Ideas started flying; the handful of history geeks in the group were all about Jeremy’s idea, and it was fun and amusing enough that everyone else jumped on it too. Fred, the senior member of the group, proclaimed that he’d bring it to the other leaders and they’d vote on it, but he was personally sold.

  “If this gets off the ground, Jeremy, I’m putting you in charge of the punch. Come up with something good we can tie in to the theme.” Jeremy nodded.

  Taking my eyes off of the screen for a moment, I could see he was pleased, more than he was showing; he was trying to work his way up into some kind of authority in the frat, and if he could take credit for a raging party idea, he’d be on his way to getting elected by his brothers to one of the lower authority positions when elections came up next semester.

  He’d been my ticket into the group. I turned my attention back onto the game, shouting with the rest of the guys when a bad call was made or a particularly good strategy played off but really thinking about my first week at college. I’d made my plans right away; all through high school I’d been one of the guys, and I had no intention of changing that now that I was, as my mom said, a “grown woman”. I kept a sharp eye out for the kind of event I wanted—and kept my ear to the ground for gossip about who I could fit in with. I’d heard about the Phi Kappa Alpha guys within the first day; they were known around campus as the “bad boy” frat—and I knew I wanted to at least be friends with some of them.

  When I’d heard about the afternoon basketball game, on my second day of orientation, I’d made sure to remember the time. During orientation week there weren’t any classes, so apart from going to seminars about safe sex or the different clubs on campus, my schedule was free. I put on my raggedy gym shorts and tee shirt and ran out to the courts while everyone was gathering; there were enough people there for two teams—just enough, including me. I was the only girl who wanted to play. The rest of them all crowded on the other side of the fence, filling up the benches to watch the guys. One of the guys, an upperclassman and orientation leader, scoffed at me insisting that I really did want to play. “This isn’t high school JV,” he told me. “You play with us, you’re going to break a nail.” I rolled my eyes.

  “I broke three fingers falling down a slope on my snowboard last year, didn’t stop me from playing volleyball.” The guy shrugged, and his frie
nd, another of the orientation leaders, picked me for his team.

  Really, all I had hoped for was to make a few friends; some of the guys were good-looking enough, but I wasn’t looking specifically for someone to go out with. I wanted guys I could hang out and watch the game with, who I could play a quick pickup game with. Not someone to make sheep eyes at me and tell me I was beautiful. So I played my heart out, hip-checking anyone who got in my way, ducking under the taller guys’ blocks and not even stopping when someone’s guard tripped me up and I face-planted on the coated-asphalt court. By the end of it, one of the guys on my team had lifted me up onto his shoulders, proclaiming me the undisputed VIP of the game, which we’d won by one point—though it wasn’t scored by me, I’d knocked over the guy who was blocking my teammate.

  Jeremy talked to me after the game. “I’m a member of Phi Kappa Alpha, you heard of us?” I had nodded; I didn’t want to seem too eager, but I was definitely interested in getting to know some of the guys from a frat with such a bad reputation. “We’re throwing a party tomorrow night, you should come out.” I was only too willing. Jeremy gave me his number and told me to text him before I got to the frat house—he would vouch for me at the door. I’d left after that to get cleaned up and ready for dinner at the dining hall, but I was pleased with my success. At least, I thought, I’d have a chance to get to know some people who were on my level.

  I showed up a few minutes after the party started, and texted Jeremy like he told me to. When I hit the door, he was waiting there for me. “Who’s the tasty dish?” the pledge at the door asked. Jeremy laughed.

  “This is Mia Johns. She helped me and some other guys slaughter in the game yesterday.” The pledge raised an eyebrow, looking me up and down. I didn’t dress up like a girly-girl, but I knew I was looking good; I’m average height and slim, with blonde hair down to the middle of my back and blue eyes I inherited from my dad. I was wearing a low-cut tee shirt and jeans with an unzipped hoodie, but I’d taken the trouble to put on a little bit of makeup; I didn’t want to look like a total slob.

  “Ah, come on, you’re pulling my dick,” the pledge had said, shaking his head at me.

  “Show him your knee,” Jeremy suggested. I tugged my pants up and showed the bruise and scrape I had taken in my face-plant, shrugging it off. It was starting to purple up nicely—and it was obviously the kind of injury that you could only get from going hard at something, not the kind of ditzy injury a girl would get running into her bed frame or falling off of the couch. The pledge handed me a red cup of keg beer and Jeremy led me around the frat, introducing me to any of his brothers we ran into. “This is Mia Johns,” Jeremy told each of them. One of the guys had been at the game the previous day, and remembered me.

  “Ah, yeah, you’re the demon child from the court!” He told me to pace myself and handed me another cup full of punch. I laughed. I’d been drinking at parties since I was fifteen; I knew how to handle my alcohol. I did pace myself, but as Jeremy kept a tally of my drinks for the night, holding onto my cups as I emptied them, his frat brothers had gained more and more respect for me.

  I finished up the night talking hockey stats with one of the upper leadership members of the frat, holding my own on the subject of the Calgary Flames while he tried to argue that the Canucks were clearly the better team. By the next day I was an established unofficial member of the group, with a spot on the couch open to me whenever I came by. Nobody treated me like one of the bunnies who came over, which I was glad for; I didn’t want to be friends with the guys because I wanted to screw them all—I wanted to be friends with the guys because it was just easier than dealing with girls, most of whom didn’t seem to have the slightest bit of interest in the things I liked to do. They talked the same way around me as they did around each other, shooting the shit about this team or that team, talking about the girls they’d hooked up with, comparing bodies and poking fun at the crazies.

  Maybe I should have stuck up for my fellow girls more; there was something someone said in one of my classes about hegemony and how thinking that women were all emotional wrecks with stupid interests was playing into the patriarchy—but the way some of the bunnies who tried to hook up with the Phi Kappa guys carried on was just crazy. Everyone in the frat was still talking about the way I’d thrown down at the first party, and some of them had exaggerated just how many drinks I’d managed to keep down without getting black-out drunk; partly because I had out-drunk most of the members, and they wanted to look like they were tougher than they were—and partly because it made me seem really worthy of the respect they showed me. Even the truth of the situation was a good enough story that it would be difficult for me to ever top it.

  While the guys were brainstorming the details of the potential Communist Party, some of the other members started to arrive from around campus. I barely looked up as Zack came in; he was spending more and more time with his girlfriend, Evelyn, but because she was cool, no one minded; he was still hitting up parties and she’d done a good enough job covering the football and basketball teams in the campus rag that she was given a certain level of respect. Plus, according to Jeremy, when she and Zack had first started dating, she’d shown everyone that she wasn’t going to put up with his shit—he’d cleaned up his act a bit, though he was still a full member of the frat, willing to get involved in pranks and happy to party it up, even if he didn’t take girls to his room anymore.

  A few others appeared and asked about the game and the progress on planning the next party. The only one I really took any note of was Jaxon. He was definitely, as my dad would have said, first among equals: a big man on campus. He was hot—his legs muscled and his upper body lean—with short light brown hair kept almost always in a beanie and constant stubble on his face. He had hazel eyes and a slightly sunburned tan, and walked around in jeans and tee shirts covered with the logos of different extreme sports events. He was easily one of the best looking guys on campus, and even if the rest of the frat—at least the members assembled in the living room—hadn’t greeted him the moment he walked in, I would have definitely noticed his arrival.

  He came into the room after setting down his backpack and looked around for a place to sit; I tried not to feel too flattered when he sank down onto the couch next to me, taking a spot someone had vacated a few minutes before to help unload beers and food into the communal fridge. “Hey, Mia,” he said, looking at the screen and then at me.

  “How’s it going, Jax?” I asked, feeling a little flutter in my chest but telling myself to ignore it. Jaxon was an upperclassman—a senior, with an established reputation in the frat of doing whatever he wanted and getting away with it. The fact that he even knew my name was impressive enough for me.

  “Not bad. Who do you have money on?” I looked at the screen and shrugged.

  “Dolphins have been having a bad season, but they seem to have it together for this one. It’ll be a close game.”

  “I dunno... Jets are looking pretty sharp—oh!” The room erupted in a cheer as the Fins completed an interception. “Okay, maybe I’m wrong.”

  “Get used to saying that, Jaxon,” I said, giving him a little grin. “Put your money where your mouth is, too.”

  “Five bucks—Jets will eek something out in the fourth quarter.” Someone off to the side made a joke about the Jets eeking out a few farts and everyone laughed—me included.

  “Five bucks on my side says Dolphins will end the game at least one touchdown head, probably two.” Jaxon shook my hand to seal the deal and I felt a little tingle. The game continued and Jaxon started taunting me as the Dolphins started to fall apart a little bit, barely holding themselves together in the face of the Jets’ offense. I couldn’t help but notice that his comments—the little teasing barbs and the jokes he made—had a flirting ring to them. Or that he kept looking at me, paying attention to me, goading me to try and increase the amount of our bet. I didn’t rise to the bait, but I gave as good as I got, earning hoots and howls of respect from the
other guys in the room.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that Jaxon was flirting with me, actually going out of his way to do it. He could have dropped the conversation totally, started talking to one of his brothers at any point in time. No one said anything about it, and I’d learned long before that the surest way to end a perfectly good friendship with a guy or a group of guys is to overthink it when they flirt with you. Most guys didn’t even really think about it; they see a pair of boobs and turn on the charm, even if they had no intention of trying to get you into bed at the end of it. It was a reflex, like jumping back when you touch something hot. A switch flicked on in their brains and flirty little comments started coming out of their mouth. Way easier by far to just banter with them and keep everything light to the touch, not assume they meant anything about it and move on with your life with maybe one or two good comebacks for future reference.

  So because I knew nothing at all would come from it, I flirted back, rolling my eyes and pulling a few girl-tricks I’d managed to pick up along the way when I’d been in high school. I kept my attention on the game and didn’t get all flustered when Jaxon implied that he’d convince me to bet against him again and again until I was broke and had to start betting my clothes. Instead I suggested that I’d keep him betting and keep winning my bets until I could not only get him down to his underwear—but require him to run across campus like that. No one in the room with us seemed to have any thought that it was at all unusual, and it was fun on top of it; at parties, if I flirted with a guy, I had to think in the back of my mind about what to do if he really did want to go through with it—and I didn’t want to. I could handle myself in a fight, but I didn’t want to be in that position if I didn’t have to.

  By the end of the game, I had managed to collect thirty dollars on various bets from Jaxon, counting his money with exaggerated care and telling him playfully that he could come back any time he wanted to lose money to me. It would come in handy the next time I needed snacks for my own dorm, or if I needed to use the washing machine on the third floor—I could load up my ID card and have enough to not only take care of my own clothes but also do one of my roomies a favor. Jaxon took his loss in good humor, saying with pretend-sternness that it would be the last time he would ever bet against a man-woman freak like me but giving me a slap on the shoulder and a grin to take the sting out of his insult.