Unwrapping Hank (2 page)

And why, oh, why did I have an overwhelming urge to run my hands over the plump muscles on those arms, shoulders, and back, when I’d never before in my life been attracted to muscle guys or tattoos? The guys I’d dated had been smart and fairly sophisticated. A guy like this should not move me. But he did, like Mt Vesuvius.

Oh God, was I going to hell? Would I end up living in Texas?

The guy looked over his shoulder at me again. His eyes were dark blue, with what looked like flecks of gold, and he had long, long black lashes. They were soft eyes.

How did a guy who looked like an ex-con have eyes that were that sweet?

“Need something?” he asked me with a slight frown.

Right. Because standing frozen by the kitchen door holding two glasses in a death grip was not weird at all.

I cleared my throat. “Refill.” I spotted the pitcher of sangria on the table and managed to fill up the two glasses. The guy had gone back to ignoring me, gently clinking glasses in the water and being ridiculously noir with the steam from the sink wafting around him like a figure in an old Humphrey Bogart film.

Some snooping was definitely in order. I left Micah’s glass on the table and wandered over to the sink with my sangria.

“Are you a Delt?” I asked, all casual.

He took his hands out of the suds and braced them on the edge of the sink. They were thick hands, flush with veins.

He looked me over critically, and I tried not to betray the fact that I found him incredibly attractive. Playing it cool, I took a sip of my drink.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “I’m Hank. Who are you?”

Oh, God. Oh, no.
“Sloane. Greg Sloane.”

“Oh.” His face closed off in a heartbeat. He went back to washing dishes. “Yeah, Micah mentioned you.”

As it happened, I’d heard of Hank too. Hank—the one guy at the fraternity who’d voted against my membership, a fact I shouldn’t know but did because Brian had let it spill. He’d also told me to “never mind Hank. Just stay far away from the guy, and he won’t bother you.” The impression I’d been left with was that bothering me—maybe with his fists—was entirely possible should I accidentally annoy this paragon.

Hank, the one Delt I’d never met but had a vague notion was homophobic and thus hated me on principle.

That’s when I noticed the cross tattooed on his impressive left bicep. Without another word, I picked up Micah’s drink and went back out into the living room. My heart was beating fast, and something like disappointment burned in my stomach.

“Hey,” Micah said. He took his glass and threw his other arm around me. “Come on, I want you to meet Sam Wiser. He’s a junior and in the vet sciences program too.”

“Sure, uh… There was a guy in the kitchen… Hank.”

Micah stopped and looked at me, smiling shyly. “Yeah? What’d you think?”

What’d I
think
?

“He seemed really… domesticated. You know, for a white supremacist.”

I was being perhaps a wee bit judgmental, but Micah laughed, a big booming laugh that made everyone turn to see what was so funny.

“I guess you know the guy,” I commented, even more perplexed by Micah’s reaction.

“Oh, I know him.” Micah pulled me in by the neck to whisper in my ear. “Hank is my baby brother.”

That night, in my dorm room, I couldn’t sleep. I had boxes shoved up next to my bed, all ready for the move to the Delts’s house, and my hair-pulling roommate was snoring away in the bed nearby.

Maybe I should have been having misgivings, but I wasn’t. I was excited. I couldn’t stop thinking about the move. I couldn’t stop thinking about Hank Springfield.

I finally decided to banish the mental tail-chasing by making a list. I took my iPad from the top of a box and turned it on, thankful it was self-illuminating. I opened the notepad app.

The mystery of H.S.:

1. He’s Micah’s brother — how could they have grown up in the same household and be so different?

2. Eyes too soft for his biker-style tatts

3. Doing dishes at a frat rush party — socially awkward? Lost a bet? Biker dude clean freak?

4. Doesn’t fit the Delta Sigma Phi mold

The list bothered me. Not because I had no answers, but because I had questions at all.

Why did I care about Hank Springfield anyway? He was very possibly a homophobe. It was clear he had something against me personally, which made no sense since I hadn’t met him unless it was just about what I was. If I was smart, I’d put him out of my mind. As my mother would say, ‘not let him own a single moment of my thoughts.’

I would, I promised myself. Soon. He’d just engaged my curiosity was all. Hank was a puzzle piece I had yet to fit. Once I had, I’d lose all interest in him. I was pretty sure.

         ~2~

Hank

MY BROTHER Micah. I loved the dude more than anything, but he could be a royal pain in my ass.

He sent me a text on a Wednesday night asking me to come to his room. His room was the nicest at Delpha Sigma Phi, so it was cool to hang out there. As befitted El Presidente, he had the corner on the second floor with nice big windows. There was a bedroom and a separate little office area for house business. I walked in carrying a couple of cold brews, expecting to find him studying on his bed, but when he waved me into his office, I knew this wasn’t just a bro call.

To my horror, Greg Sloane was already in there, sitting on the little couch. It was just me and him and Micah. My stomach immediately went to its unhappy place. What was this, an intervention? Had Sloane been boo-hooing to Micah because I wasn’t friendly enough to him? I shot Sloane an accusatory glare.

“Hey,” I said to Micah. I handed him a beer. I didn’t apologize for not having one for Sloane too. I had no idea he’d be there. Besides, he didn’t look like a beer kind of guy.

“Thanks, buddy boy.” Micah took the beer and put it unopened on his desk like he’d have it later. Whatever. I opened mine and took a big drink.

“So… I called you guys up here because I have an assignment for you. You two are in charge of our Christmas party this year.”

I sprayed beer out in what, I swear to God, was a beautiful, fully-symmetrical arc. If it had been paint, it would have been fine art. “Oh, hell no!”

Micah ignored me. “Sloane, you  haven’t done your fraternity service yet. Congratulations. This is it.” Micah gave Sloane his patented ‘I know you agree with me’ smile. “I figured you could come up with a few ideas to give the event some class. Last year it was basically ear-splitting music, thousand-proof punch, a wasteland of Solo cups, and vomiting. Copious amounts of vomiting.”

“Hey! That was an awesome party!” I’d planned that party, thank you very much.

“Do I have options for this community service requirement?” Sloane asked, arching one of those oh-so-fucking-classy eyebrows. “For example, building a bomb shelter in the backyard or scrubbing the inside of the chimney with a toothbrush?” He looked hopeful. “Because my parents entertained a lot, and I’d rather submit to water torture.”

“There you go,” Micah said, all upbeat like Sloane had just had a great idea. “Plan a party that you actually would like to attend. Here’s a tip: cut down on the vomiting. As for you,
Hank
.” Micah turned his attention on me.

“Absolutely not,” I said.

“You’re gonna work with Sloane because you
do
know how to throw a frat party. It’ll be a good mix.”

“No.”

“And it’s your chance to make up for the way it turned out last year.”

“Not gonna happen.” I folded my arms firmly over chest and narrowed my eyes. Not that there was much hope of intimidating the guy who’d helped potty train me.

“And because you’ve done zero mentoring of the new rushes. And because I’m the frat president. And because I say so.” Micah finished in his leadership voice. He quirked an eyebrow at me.

My brother didn’t throw his weight around often. But when he did, he meant it. I knew, in this, I was doomed.

I gritted my teeth. “What do I have to do?”

“Great!” Micah grinned as if Sloane and I were jumping up and down and clapping our hands with enthusiasm like Pee Wee Herman. “I want a party plan on my desk in two weeks—theme, food, drinks, activities, the works.”

“A
what
? It’s a frat party!” I complained. “Why the hell would we need a
plan
?”

“Look, guys, here’s the thing….” Micah got serious and sat on the edge of his desk. “I’ve been working for the past few years to make this house one of the best on campus—”

Oh, God. Not the ‘my vision for the frat’ speech—

“And we’ve come a long way, but when it comes to parties, we’re not even on the map. Acacia and Phi Kappa Psi have the rep for the best parties. I think we can own this. We can do classier and more interesting than a beer keg on the lawn but still fun. Come on. Show me what you guys can do. We have five hundred budgeted for it. There might be more, but you’ll have to convince me it’s worth it.”

I glanced at Sloane. He was looking me over in that weird, intense way he had, like I was a rare species of beetle and he was a near-sighted entomologist. It was creepy. “I’m in,” he said, which made me highly suspicious.

“Whatever,” I said.

“Right on.” Micah gave Sloane a big smile and held out his hand for a fist bump. Sloane bumped it, then he and Micah went through this bump-high-five-forearm-shake thing, which was so hyper cool it made me want to puke. Micah put his arm around Sloane’s shoulders and led him out the door. “Hey, thanks, man. It’ll be fun,” he promised.

Jesus H. Christ. I shut the door behind Sloane and turned to glower at Micah. “Why are you doing this?”

“I told you why.”

“Bullshit. I mean, come on, seriously? Me and Sloane? What the hell are you thinking?” I kept my voice low, not wanting the guy to hear me if he was still in earshot.

Micah flipped off the top of his beer and flopped down on the couch. “Bro, everybody loves Sloane. Everyone but you.”

“So what? There’s no rule that says I have to like him.” My beer was somehow empty, so I opened the little fridge in Micah’s office and helped myself. After all, I’d brought him one. He owed me. Micah gave me a ‘dude, it’s midweek’ look, but he didn’t say anything.

“Look, I meant what I said. I think you guys would be a good team on this project, and yeah, I’d like you to get to know Sloane a little better. You haven’t exactly been leaping over yourself to help out the new rushes.”

“Come on, that’s not me!” I was a loner by nature, and Micah damned well knew that.

“So… a little push to be more social now and then won’t kill you. It’s one party. You don’t have to marry the guy.”

But I really, really didn’t like it. Sloane and me, we were like oil and water, or maybe a bottled home-made brew and some prissy champagne.

I'll admit that I was prejudiced against Sloane before I ever met him. Micah was so into this frat. It was like his personal mission to make it the best house on campus before he left PSU. And he’d do it, too. Because Micah could pretty much do anything he set his mind to. Anyway, he always scoped out the freshman class for the best recruits, and he was all over Sloane like a fucking fairy godmother, talked about him for weeks before I met the guy.

It was obvious why Micah liked him. 1) Sloane was classy and 2) he was gay. One of Micah’s goals had been to diversify the frat. We already had two gay guys in the house, but Micah was happy to have more as long as they weren’t party bunnies like the ones over at Lambda house. Sloane wasn’t. He was that gay guy that everyone loved. He was fucking cute, for one thing, so he was a great wing man, or so I’d heard. He was maybe five-nine, slender, with shaggy dark brown hair and eyes, a decent face, and he always had a day’s stubble, apparently on purpose. He wore dark clothes mostly, funky microfiber or some such shit black low-riders, dark shirts that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. And he’d lived in Paris and London and God knows where else. He had that ‘I’m better than you’ confidence. And he was really fucking smart.

The fact that he’d gone to high school in Paris impressed Micah. He wanted ‘class’ for the Delts. Me? I figured anyone who could have gone to university in France and enrolled in Pennsylvania State University instead—well, he might be baking, but the oven wasn’t on, if you know what I mean.

Sloane just bugged me.

It bugged me that Micah thought he was so perfect.

It bugged me that nobody else, gay or straight, had a problem with him.

And yeah, it bugged me that he was gay. It was like, I dunno, like he was
available
or something. I didn’t feel that way about the other gay guys in the frat, but with Sloane it was as if there was a hot girl in the house. It just… it wasn’t right. That wasn’t what I wanted my frat house to be. I wanted it to be just…
guys
, and not to have to think about walking down the hall nude to get to the shower, or being all gross and sweaty after a workout, or feel stupid for clipping my toenails in front of the community TV. Sloane made me feel… uncomfortable. Like he was all superior and I didn’t want to look stupid in front of him.