"It's okay if you don't want to. We can drive back tonight. I probably won't drink anyway—"
"No, no. It's fine." I notice that a lot of people on the bus have backpacks. "I just didn't bring anything."
The more time I spend with Aiden, the more content I have to write about for my article. At this point, I don't have enough to write anything mildly juicy. He's nice, for Christ sake. I mean, aside from the "you're so hot" comments. Even still, it's a compliment. I expected douchebag. And what I'm getting right now is nervous boy on his first date.
I guess it's pretty juicy that the frat president has never been on a date before. It would make him come off more douchebag-esque, if I really emphasize that he just hooks up with girls instead of having real relationships. I can spin this a little, despite my gut feeling that Aiden's not nearly as bad as I thought.
Plus, the whole overnight formal surprise thing could really build onto the douchebag effect. I'll leave out the fact that he offered to drive me home.
"You can borrow some of my things. Our house mom brought my stuff in her car. I should have an extra shirt you can wear for bed." He grabs his phone out of his pocket. "I really thought I told you, I'm sorry again."
"It's okay. No big deal." It's a huge deal, actually. I'm spending the night in a hotel room with STDs president. That I met today. For the first time.
The bus stops in front of a fancy hotel in the city, one my family would never be able to stay at. There's a grand hotel lobby, twinkling chandeliers in the sky.
For just a minute, I hope one of these frat guys gets drunk enough to swing on the chandeliers, and I'm thinking it could be Bradley. He's definitely tall enough to grab one, if he used some frat guys to hoist him up.
The crowd of drunk college students heads to a side room that leads to a giant, luxurious ballroom. There's blue and purple mood lighting eliminating the dance floor, but the rest of the room is pretty dark. I feel like I'm at a reception party for a wedding, aside from the horribly loud trap music blasting.
"Want a drink?" Aiden asks.
"Do you not drink at all?"
"No, I do. I just don't want to get wasted with a stranger," I say. It's part of the truth. The other part is that I need to be able to write my article, but I couldn't tell him that.
"I understand." He looks down at his dress shoes. "So, not even one drink?"
I debate it. Two shots at home, one drink here. I should be fine. I'm a heavy-weight, after all. It runs in the family. "I guess one wouldn't hurt."
And even if I did get wasted, I strangely trust that Aiden wouldn't take advantage of me. In fact, I can picture him taking care of me. Possibly holding my hair back as I throw up in the toilet. He'd tuck me into bed and offer to sleep on the floor. But I really wouldn't want him on the floor because I'm sure there's no more comforting place than his arms.
God dammit, what is this boy doing to me? I sound so stupid! He's a stranger. I don't trust him. How could I trust this guy? He already lied to me about this being an overnight formal.
Aiden orders us two vodka cranberries at the side bar. I watch just to make sure he doesn't try drugging me, and I feel a little guilty for even thinking he would. He's not like that.
"M'lady," he says and hands me the plastic cup.
I can't help but laugh. "Can you please forget I said that?"
"Oh no, I'll be holding it against you the whole night," he says and takes a sip from his cup.
I take a moment to admire his looks. He still doesn't seem real, so handsome and charming, but awkward and nervous. He could really be a model if the whole president thing doesn't work out for him. I'm imagining him as a swimsuit model, probably speedos.
I finish my drink in another gulp and toss the empty cup into a trash can nearby.
Aiden raises his eyebrows in amusement, his whole cup basically filled. "Damn, you already finished?"
I shrug. I have a problem with slowly drinking alcohol.... in that I don't drink it slowly. It tends to make it easy for me to lose count of how many drinks I've had. 1, 2, 3 in just ten minutes. Or was it 4? Maybe it was 8.
I lose track by the time Aiden and I are on the dance floor. He's just as drunk as I am. We're both a complete mess, but no one really notices because they're all wasted too. It's almost a beautiful moment, as all these drunk people gather together in harmony, breaking down to Nelly's Hot In Herre.
Aiden breaks into a stanky leg dance move, his long leg moving in a circle.
"That's my president!" Stanley says, appearing on the dance floor. He claps his hands together and lets out something that sounded like a mating call before breaking into the worm.
Aiden and Stanley must dance to Nelly a lot at their frat parties because the two of them start doing this routine to the song, moving together in perfect, frat boy harmony. I get bumped into as more people crowd around to watch the boys perform.
When it gets to the chorus, the boys start unbuttoning their dress shirts.
I think of my article subheading already: Frat Boy turned Stripper.
Aiden throws his shirt at me, and I catch it. I don't know why, but I feel my cheeks heat up a little. Probably because so many people looked to see who got the STD president's shirt. Or it could've been because Aiden's abs were ten times sexier in person.
I'll stick to thinking it's because of all the people looking at me.
"What the hell was that?" I ask at the end of the song, handing Aiden's shirt back to him.
He flexes all the muscles in the human body at once. Well, not actually. But enough to make me notice how toned his everything is.
"I promise we've never done that before," he says.
"I promise I don't believe you one bit."
He laughs. "Swear to the holy frat pledge!"
"If you're lying, 100 innocent boys will get hazed tonight," I say and cross my arms over my chest.
His eyes widen and he mimics the sign of the cross. "God forbid someone has to witness 100 scrawny frat boys running across the quad naked."
"I probably wouldn't have minded seeing you run naked across the quad," the alcohol says.
Aiden raises his eyebrows and smirks. "You wouldn't mind, huh?"
I decide there's no point in taking back my comment. It wasn't a lie, and I don't lie when I'm drunk. "Not one bit, Mr. President."
His arm wraps around my waist and he pulls me closer. His breath smells like vodka, and I suddenly have an immense thirst for more. If I weren't drunk, I think I would've stepped back from Aiden already. But I'm not sober, and I don't step back.
"You're very beautiful," he says, his eyes on my cranberry colored lips.
I feel a lump rise in my throat. The way he is looking at me with so much desire and need is making my head feel light. Kiss me, I want to say.
But instead I throw up.
YOU ARE READING
My Date with the Frat PresidentTeen Fiction
After matching on Tinder, Aiden invites Brooklyn to his fraternity's formal. She plans on turning him down; but, when the school newspaper's head editor hears word, he offers Brooklyn a promotion if she writes a tell-all article about dating Sigma T...