Page 61 of The Deal
She lets out a shaky breath, nods, and slumps into my arms.
For a long time, neither of us says a thing.
But inside my chest, behind the practiced calm, something is already snapping the world into order: a checklist, a plan, a promise.
And at the top of the list, in letters too bright to look at, is a name.
But it doesn’t belong to Clay.
We stay locked togetherat the bottom of the stairs, her head tucked under my chin, the hollow of her body fitting into mine like a secret. My pulse is a hammer against her temple. I count her breaths, waiting for the cadence to slow, but it never gets all the way down. The engine in her chest is stuck on redline.
When she pulls away, I let her go without resistance. She steps back, not far, just enough to see me full in the face, the tear-streaks gone but the eyes raw and glassy. She looks smaller than usual. She looks like she’s bracing for an impact that never stops coming.
I take the phone from the table, thumb it awake. The videos are still queued up in the Snap story—her classmates have already downloaded and saved them a hundred times over, but the original poster isn’t even trying to hide their work. Amateurs.
I tap the first one, mute it, and slow it down. It’s not habit, but something close: the way I’d review a scan for micro-calcifications, the way I’d replay a cystoscopy in reverse to catch the tell-tale shimmer of an early lesion. My blue eyes adjust to the little backlit rectangle, the floaters and scars in the periphery vanishing as I zero in.
The face-swap is passable, but not expert. The shadow at the jawline bleeds with every thrust, the mask warping slightly at the cheekbone. When the girl turns to look at the camera, there’s a one-fifth-second lag in the smile, and the pixel edge blurs like a bad watermark. Any doctor would see it instantly, but to a bored sophomore? It’s gospel.
More interesting is the background. The decor is what you’d expect: battered futon, “Beer Pong Legend” banner, a corner lamp with a torn shade that looks like it survived a fire. But the camera angle is dumb as shit—directly face-on, the kind you set up if you want your buddies to know exactly who was at the party.
The men in the video are supposed to be anonymous, but they’re not. The face of the guy in the foreground—he’s the one getting his cock sucked—is blurred just enough to obscure his mid-face, but nothing else. The jawline is a rock, and he has a glinting silver cross dangling from one ear. Sigma Epsilon Chi, class of never.
The other guy, behind the fake “Mary Kate,” is dumber still. He’s wearing a t-shirt with the house logo, and his sleeve tattoo is in perfect focus: a sleeve of blackwork skulls and Viking axes, extending past the elbow. It’s artistic, distinctive, and far too unique. He might as well have tatted his name on his hand.
I look up at Mary Kate, then tap the screen with my finger. “They didn’t even try, sweetheart. This is bush league. Anyone with a filter and ten minutes can do this, but only if they’re morons.”
She edges closer, blinking hard, and peers at the screen. I rewind, pause it, zoom in on the jaw.
“That’s—” she starts, then stops, voice catching. She’s seen it. She knows exactly who that is.
“Whoever made this is an idiot. They had no reason releasing porn into the world, but this blurring is shoddy. That tattoo? The jewelry? People will figure who the boys are in no time. Which is odd, because this destroys the rep of the guys, too. You think any of these idiots want their future bosses seeing this?”
She shakes her head, but slow, uncertain.
I let it roll, then switch to the second video. I freeze it at the moment the girl—my girl, but not my girl—sits on the man’s lap. The guy’s face is blurred, but his hand is visible. There’s a massive class ring, gold with a garnet stone, and on his wrist, a cheap plastic Livestrong bracelet. I snap a quick screenshot and hand her the phone.
She stares at it, her lips parting in a tiny, silent “oh.” She knows the ring. She’s seen it around campus. She’s seen it in her goddamn classes.
She puts the phone down, face gone pale.
“Maybe they don’t care,” she mutters, but the words are hollow. “Maybe guys just don’t care, you know? Maybe they want people to see. Maybe they think it’s… I don’t know. Cool or whatever, to be seen in porn.”
I shake my head, tight, not smiling. “These guys are idiots, but they’re not that dumb. Their parents pay good money for them to act like idiots in private, not on a public channel that gets screenshotted into eternity. If this gets out, it follows them forever. Even Clay isn’t that reckless. Not with his own face, anyway.”
She pulls her arms in tighter, shoulders hunched. “Then who?—?”
“There’s a third party,” I say, talking slow so the words have time to sink in. “The Sigma boys are idiots and likely were circulating this video among themselves. Somehow it got out, and then a third party grabbed it and put your face on the girls while blurring the faces of the boys.”
“But why?” Mary Kate gasps.
I frown.
“Whoever posted this, they have a reason. They want you destroyed, that’s for sure. This is someone who wants to make a point, and who doesn’t care who gets trampled.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Do you know who?”
“Not yet,” I growl, though I already have a suspect, the back of my brain spinning names and motives in neat rows. “But I can find out. The account that posted this is supposedly anonymous, but there’s always a trace. Always a loose end.”
