Dear Alpha Delta Lamba Sisters Alumni,
You are cordially invited to attend this year’s Rush Week at the University of Alabama!
We especially hope you’re present as we open our sisters’ time capsule early on Bid Night! The capsule was packed on the centennial Founder’s Day of our sorority, five years ago, so this will be a very special night of sisterhood and fellowship.
Alumni are welcome for all nine days. Once a Bama Sis, always a Bama Sis! We hope to see you there!
Kisses,
The Current ADL Execs
The unexpected invitation arrived on thick card stock with gold embossed lettering, crimson and white ribbons that curled, and all the sweetness of youth and sisterhood Annabelle Walker remembered from her days at Bama.
There was also a second, inconspicuous letter, her name written in black-ink block letters on a plain business envelope, which she hadn’t opened yet. Envelopes like that were usually junk. But there’d been something about it that caught her curiosity. A subtle hint of perfume.
She slipped both into a drawer and returned to work. The clock was ticking for her to complete this project, and then she could address her mail.
Rainbows danced over Annabelle’s wall. She tilted all thirty-five carats of the scaled-down Hope diamond look-alike back and forth, admiring the sparkling design. At its center was a massive grayish-blue diamond pendant, surrounded by smaller colorless diamonds, like the strand itself.
An ultraviolet light shone under the center diamond had glowed red, its phosphorescence proving that it was a real blue diamond.
She held it up to her neck, glancing at the mirror behind her desk, and sighed with regret that she was about to break this baby up and sell it for parts. A shame really, because it could be on display at the Smithsonian in Washington, DC.
Not that she would give it to a museum. Heck no. She wanted to keep it for herself.
In two hours, her husband would be home from work—if that’s where he really was. Greg loved young, bubbly blondes—he filled his firm with them like most people stocked office supplies—and often walked through the door smelling like cheap perfume and sex.
She’d have to pretend not to notice the musty tang or smudges of lipstick on his collar while she told him she was staying in a hotel for nine days during Bama Rush Week. Where he’d probably insist she take their son, because why should he have to bother with him, and she’d have to tell him no, that Rush Week wasn’t a place for children. And that meant he’d be balls deep in the nanny by midnight in retaliation. Good thing she had a service she could call before she got home to have her replaced.
Not that her husband’s infidelities bothered her. Annabelle used to think she loved him, but now being married to the most prominent criminal lawyer in Tuscaloosa was more like a liability insurance policy, and his dick rammed inside another woman was the upfront attorney retainer.
A reunion with her sorority sisters was an exciting prospect. Besides the occasional phone call, she hadn’t seen Brooklyn since her wedding to Drew, Taylor since an alumni event a few years ago, and Asana since graduation because she’d been too tied up with work in New York City to join them. Bogged down in their own personal dramas and lives, they’d not had a chance to get together the way they’d all promised.
Rush Week, her friends, and the time capsule opening were an unexpected surprise. Everyone was probably very eager to see what was inside.
There was one damper on the upcoming week—she was dreading competing for space with her mother. Annabelle had been on the exec board of her sorority as treasurer, almost following in the footsteps of her mother, who was a legacy president in Alpha Delta Lambda and never let her forget it.
Lily Walker was a legend and still active in Greek Life, encouraging Annabelle to mentor young women who wanted to join the sisterhood. Which she did, to keep up appearances. That part wasn’t so bad. She loved to foster those relationships and share the joys of being in a sorority. Sisters for life.
And she donated regularly to the house’s philanthropy. Just last year she provided their weekly flower arrangements for all twelve months. This year, she was sponsoring all the chapter meetings. Taylor would love that. Tea parties inspired by Tiffany—and paid for by gems like these. Though rumor had it they weren’t calling chapter meetings tea parties anymore.
No one was any the wiser that Annabelle’s donations came with a price. Not much, just a token here or there. A few shining
proudly on her private office wall display that she kept hidden behind an Andy Warhol. Some habits were hard to kick, harder if you didn’t really want to. And taking things she admired was something Annabelle enjoyed.
Curiosity getting the better of her, Annabelle set down the necklace and returned to the mysterious envelope, carefully slicing the seam with her Hermès letter opener.
I know what you did. Come to Rush Week, or I’ll tell everyone else.
Seeing her friends, opening the silly time capsule, competing with her mom, none of those things made her heart race like the anonymous letter, which included a picture of words she’d written in the infamous sorority Spill Book.
The thought that they’d all blindly spilled the tea—their darkest secrets—like good little sorority sisters, during Taylor’s tea parties, was bewildering. In the five years since graduation, she’d regretted writing nearly every word. Even the seemingly innocent ones. Because if one of those notes got out to the public, she’d be screwed.
Like maximum-security-prison screwed.
How the heck the anonymous sender got their hands on it, Annabelle didn’t know. Probably an elaborate joke. She’d assumed when the Spill Book didn’t show up at the last tea party at ADL that Asana had burned it—she burned a lot of secret things.
Taylor never mentioned the book again—and she and Asana had not been on speaking terms at the time. Sister drama.
Was it possible that Taylor hadn’t burned the Spill Book? Even crazier, was it possible she put it in the time capsule? No, she wouldn’t do that.
Annabelle needed to talk to Taylor. ASAP. Probably some idiot found a stash of Taylor’s blackmail material, which she hadn’t hesitated to use on any of the sisters. Maybe she’d not brought the Spill Book to the last tea party because she thought someone would try to steal it.
Taylor was hard to read. And not always forthcoming with information.
And really, the particular entry that Annabelle wrote that was called out in the anonymous note wasn’t as bad as some. Just a dumb little poem. But that didn’t mean they didn’t have the rest of the entries she’d made.
And those were worse. Much worse.
part of the Machine—a secret society on campus that pretty much ruled everything from campus dining and homecoming queen to the Student Government Association and local political elections—those donkeys tried to dictate everything.
Maybe she thought it was funny.
With a groan at how much the stupid letter was taking up her brain space, Annabelle tugged down her magnifying visor, flipped the switch on the light, and placed the necklace on a white velvet working pad. She didn’t have time to be panicking about a stupid prank.
Focus, darn it.
This necklace held its gems in with prongs rather than a bezel setting, which encased the stone with a metal rim. Prongs made her job all the easier. Still, it would take time to remove the stones, because she needed to work slowly so as not to damage the gems.
People always thought that diamonds were indestructible, but it wasn’t true. Hit hard enough they could chip or, worse, break apart—like friendships. Annabelle was an expert at deconstructing jewelry, and had never had a casualty on her watch. Unlike some of her past relationships.
Using her pliers, she bent each prong outward, until the stone was free from the platinum fingers that had held it captive. She removed the big stone first, then went to work on the rest of the necklace, taking her time until she had a pile of colorless diamonds on one side of her velvet pad, and the blue diamond sitting alone on the other. In the center were the platinum remnants, which would be melted down, but not here. The smell of that would send her husband and their staff sniffing around her office.
She called her office her sanctuary. A place she could come and do her yoga and meditation. Read novels and be unbothered. And if one were to simply look, that’s all they’d see. A retreat inside a massive Alabama mansion.
And if they looked closer, they’d still see nothing beyond the calm neutral tones of a woman’s haven.
It had been Annabelle’s idea to have their house built—and she’d chosen the design and architect herself. Didn’t Greg think he should have the biggest and best? Show his clients he was worth the fortune he charged? Stroking his ego, and then blowing him right after, had sealed the deal. And then she’d paid for her own clandestine safe room, designing it herself.
An innocuous bookshelf, filled with novels her husband would never go near. Hidden within was a tiny latch, which opened to her real office.
Once she was inside, the bookshelf went back into place, and it looked like she wasn’t in the room, in case anyone came looking.
So, while her son was on his way to school with his nanny on watch, Annabelle was doing her “yoga.” And now that her project was complete, and she was done pretending to be downward dogging, she would walk to her favorite coffee shop and be seen in town. The dutiful and devoted wife of big-time lawyer Greg, and the loving, doting mother of Liam.
Appearances were everything. And she’d been keeping up with those for years.
So, she would do the Stepford wife thing today, and she would plan to go to Rush Week.
While the local ladies cooed and oohed, none of them would be any the wiser she’d just spent the last three hours prepping to fence jewels and making more money in that time than they likely would in a decade.
Unless of course they were the housewives she was selling to.
Namaste.
Well, hello there, nosy little bee.
Are you looking for a gossip flower? You’re about to get drunk slurping on more than just our sorority nectar.
This is an Alpha Delta Lambda tea party, and we’re about to spill our sticky, not-so-sweet secrets all over this book.
Kisses,
Taylor
Brooklyn
First impressions were everything.
And people were very judgmental. Anyone who said they weren’t was probably the worst offender. Sort of like people who said “honestly” a lot—did that mean they were normally lying?
Brooklyn was very good at making first impressions. A hobby really.
A lucrative hobby.
Brooklyn clicked the lock on her dorm now that her roommate had scampered off, and adjusted her phone on the tripod, the camera aimed at her sneakered feet. She hit record, then slowly, seductively untied her shoes, tugging on the laces in a playful way, before sliding her shoes completely off. She stroked her tapered fingers over her bare ankle, slid a finger under the fabric of her Bombas sock, and then slowly peeled it off. Sock tossed aside, she stretched and pointed her toes, tipped with pink nail polish.
Her second toe was longer than her big toe. On it she wore a silver ring. Off with the next sock. She stroked her feet together slowly, sensually. Wondering just what kind of weirdos were at home rubbing one out to her foot striptease. With a final sexy arched-foot pose, she clicked off the camera. A few more clicks, and the video was uploaded. All she had to do was watch the dollars roll in for her OnlyFans name: Sporty Spyce.
But calculating how much she’d have to keep up with the sorority drip was going to have to wait.
Right now she needed to get ready for the first event of Bama Rush Week. The first day of the rest of her life, however clichéd that sounded. She’d been planning for this moment for years.
Brooklyn tucked the folder containing her sorority headshots and résumé into her rush bag. Though she’d already sent them out to each of the Greek houses she was rushing, it didn’t hurt to be prepared with more. Also in her rush bag was a first aid kit, stain remover, deodorant, a brush, perfume, makeup, an extra shirt, a water bottle, a power bank, a mini-fan (it’s hot AF in Bama), a notebook, colored gel pens (black and blue were boring), slides for when her sandals got uncomfortable, sunscreen, a granola bar, a sewing kit, a mirror, breath mints, and hair spray.
She liked to think of her rush bag as an emergency kit for any situation, and it was just as deep as Mary Poppins’s carpetbag, only more stylish and not so old. Plus, it’d gain her points, she was sure.
lipped her phone back to the tripod and clicked on the TikTok app, where she was Brooklyn in Bama. Time to make another impression to her hundreds of thousands of fans. By the end of Rush Week, she hoped to top a million. That’s when the sponsorships started to roll in.
“Good morning, y’all! Time to Roll Tide. I’ve just got done with an early soccer practice and now I’m getting ready for the first day of Bama Rush Week,” Brooklyn gushed into the video that she’d upload. She liked to come off as lovable and innocent, especially because most people thought gingers were feisty and ready to bang. What if she was? It was all about the impression, and the what-if. “It’s Convocation today, where basically we learn about the different sororities and the benefits of being a part of Panhellenic life. I’m so excited.”
She posed again, her full body in view, giving her viewers a moment to admire her.
“Are y’all ready for my first outfit of the day?” No Potential New Member—or PNM—would dare leave their dorm without an OOTD post.
Brooklyn swept her long, slightly curled red hair over her shoulder, and then posed, hands beneath her chin and a smile as sweet as buttermilk pie. “My skirt is from Gold Hinge.” She pointed to her hips, then moved the rest of the way through her fit check. “My shirt is from Lulu, shoes are from On Cloud, bracelets from David Yurman, necklace from Tiffany, earrings from Altar’d State, and my rush bag is from Chloé.” She lifted the large Woody Basket, with the long Chloé logo ribbons, showing off the last of her killer ensemble. The expensive things she wore were mostly gifts from her admirers. Whenever she got something in the mail, she was still excited. How was this her life?
She posted and tagged: #OOTD #BamaRush #GreekLife #RollTide #RushWeek.
Outside her dorm, the sun was in full UV mode, likely a six, which was perfect for tanning, but the humidity made the air look a little wavy. Brooklyn was glad she’d opted for the tank top. Girls were walking from all directions, dressed in their cute skirts or dresses, their hair all done. A sea of blond—or wannabe blondes. She might have been the only redhead. That was all right though, because Brooklyn liked to stand out—in ways that counted.
She was a sexy soccer star, a top-tier PNM—not just a kid at Bama on a partial scholarship ride trying to make ends meet and hoping for social media stardom. At first glance, she had enough money to pay for her place in the sorority, and no one needed to know how she afforded it.
“Oh, I love that necklace.” A pretty brunette with fresh highlights poked the diamond at the center of Brooklyn’s throat. “Tiffany?”
“Yes, how did you know?” Brooklyn was glad the other student hadn’t looked closer at her other jewelry, one of which was a knockoff. The necklace at least was real, a gift from her daddy—by definition, a sexy, charismatic older man with money—but that was another story.
“I’ve got an eye for these things.” She put her hand on her hip, her frame tall and athletic. “I’m Annabelle by the way.”
“Brooklyn.”
Annabelle twirled a long lock around her bejeweled finger. “Like the city?”
Brooklyn wrenched a smile from somewhere, annoyed by the question, and started to walk, not wanting to be late to the assembly. “The one and only.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from New York.” Annabelle kept pace.
“I’m not.”
“Named after the place your parents hooked up?” Annabelle wiggled her brows.
Brooklyn didn’t laugh. It was a joke a thousand people had attempted, and none had ever been able to get a rise.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend.” Annabelle laughed nervously and held up her hands in surrender.
Brooklyn quickly laughed and gave Annabelle’s arm a gentle squeeze, realizing she’d let her mask drop for just a second too long. This might be her first friend during Rush Week, and she didn’t want to ruin it—or risk Annabelle spreading rumors about her being an uptight bitch. “None taken. Who are you rushing?”
“Only top-tiers for me; Alpha Delta Lambda is my number one. My mom was their president back in the 1900s.”
Brooklyn’s eyes widened, and then she laughed. “Wow, I bet she just loves to hear you say that.”
Annabelle giggled, until she snorted. “She hates it, but a girl’s gotta be able to dig in a little when her mom’s acting like the stage director of her life.”
Brooklyn smiled softly, unsure what to say besides, “oh bless your heart,” which didn’t seem appropriate in this case. Her own mother didn’t care what she did as long as she didn’t have to pay for it. Annabelle looked well taken care of with diamonds of her own, highlights in her hair, and acrylics on her fingernails. Just to keep up her look alone must be at least a few hundred a month, and that didn’t include attire.
They reached the historic auditorium with its brick facade and imposing stone columns. Girls gushing as they rushed inside took away from the seriousness of the building’s history.
Its racist history.
The famous “Stand in the Schoolhouse Door” incident in 1963, that even Forrest Gump portrayed.
Brooklyn swallowed, taking note of the lack of diversity. She stood out as a ginger. Black girls stood out because of their skin.
“You all right?” Annabelle was staring at her like Brooklyn had morphed into half the girls in her hometown—run-down and out of place.
If I drop my mask one more time . . . “Hell yeah! Just like totally overwhelmed. Can you believe we’re here?”
Annabelle grabbed her hand and tugged her through the doors. “Come on! Let’s go inside.”
Brooklyn had been dreaming about being a part of a sorority since she was a tween and had watched Legally Blonde about four thousand times. When she found out she could still play soccer, it felt like the stars were aligning. She could kick ass and wear pink? Sold.
“Oh my gosh, will you just look at all of us?” Annabelle practically squealed as they entered the auditorium with a couple thousand other girls, dressed, made-up, and jeweled to impress.
Brooklyn was the first in her family to attend college, and nobody understood how important rushing was. Her mom worked her fingers
to the bone cleaning houses for rich assholes, and her dad was a security guard who spent most of his working hours drinking beer, and thus was always getting fired.
Brooklyn pinched herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming as she took in the streaming lights, the stage, the crimson stadium seats. This right here would be the most important week of her life.
“Sit up front?” Annabelle pointed to two spots right in the center in front of the stage.
“Of course.” Brooklyn grinned. Despite their rocky start, she had an idea that she and Annabelle might get along.
“What’s your major?” Annabelle asked as they settled into their chairs, rush bags in front of their crossed legs.
“Broadcasting.”
“Oh, you’ll be perfect for that, you have a great voice.”
“Thank you.” Brooklyn knew it but always enjoyed hearing it from someone else. “What about you?”
“Geology. Never saw a stone I didn’t like.”
“I used to have a rock collection when I was growing up. Never admitted that to anyone before.”
Annabelle laughed. “I have a rock collection still, only now it also includes a few gems.”
“Okay, so now we have to be friends.”
More students filed in, the din echoing in the massively high ceilings.
Brooklyn introduced herself to the PNMs around her, chatting about the different sororities they wanted to visit. The lights flashed, and a collective gasp of excitement sucked the air from the room. She tapped her feet on the floor and squealed, “Here we go, ladies!”
An elegant blonde walked onto the stage and sat down. Other Panhellenic council members did the same. Annabelle stiffened beside her, her face frozen in a smile that looked brittle enough to crack.
“You okay?” Brooklyn wasn’t the only one with a mask.
Annabelle offered a fake laugh. “Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” But her gaze fell back on the woman who happened to be staring right at them.
I sold a picture of my feet on OnlyFans for $500. Who knew that was even a thing?
Kisses,
Brooklyn
Asana
Whoever said money couldn’t buy happiness clearly hadn’t had enough.
Asana Duke moaned in pleasure, splayed out on a lounge chair by the resort’s purple-lighted pool, one ankle on some hot-as-fuck guy’s shoulder as he drove into her, and the breasts of whoever dangled over her face.
It was a hedonistic paradise. A sexy playground for the rich and richer. A purlieu for those who met on her secret website, Matinee. The caveat? Married members only. Except for her. She was the boss. And if there was one thing Asana had sworn never to do, that was get married.
Stars shone overhead. Only a few dozen feet away, water crashed on the beach. The resort was lit enough to see the other moaning, writhing bodies indulging in one another.
After the Ashley Madison scandal more than a decade ago, people needed someone new to trust, and why not her? She had her reasons for taking up the mantle as a heartbreaker, and they were nobody’s business.
When work became too much—which was basically always—Fantasia was one of Asana’s favorite places to escape. No ridiculous PR campaigns to run, no spoiled-rotten executives with reputations that needed saving. Just a sex-positive elite resort that catered to people like her: rich, sexy, and down to fuck. Kind of like the swap parties they’d had on Greek Row back at Bama.
Only if anyone found out about this, she and her entire family’s mega corporation would be screwed.
She arched her back, an orgasm just a thrust or two away, when a phone started to buzz. This grotto was no place for calls. Someone hadn’t followed the rules. She ignored it, knowing it couldn’t be hers.
The buzzing continued.
“It’s yours,” crooned the woman bent over her.
“Impossible.” Asana had turned her phone off. At least she was pretty sure she had. Between the glasses of champagne and the sexy pool relay races, she remembered powering down. Or at least pressing the button. Had she slid the power to off?
Why was she even thinking about that when she was getting laid?
The buzzing turned to dinging.
“Def yours,” lover boy said as he pounded away.
“Don’t stop,” Asana ordered, wrapping her other ankle around jacked dude’s hip, and flicking her tongue over the nipple of the curvy blonde. “I don’t care.”
Buzz. Ding. Buzz. Ding.
k-to-back unless it was an emergency.
“Fucking A.” She pushed the woman away, bucked off the dude, and stood, yanking down her leather miniskirt, which she wore with no underwear, and tucked her breasts back into her red corset top. “Sorry. You two finish. Whoever is calling me better be fucking dying.”
She slipped on her stilettos, which had been kicked off in the heat of the moment, grabbed her purse, and yanked out her phone.
Asana swiped on the first message, and did a double take. A picture she hadn’t known existed filled her screen.
A picture she wished had never been taken.
A picture she was certain to get screwed over.
Her and Taylor Collins, lips locked, wearing ADL T-shirts with little pink hearts all over that gave the year away.
Taylor Collins. Her onetime BFF. The first sorority friend she’d had. A mouth she hadn’t felt on hers in at least five years. Any effects of the encroaching orgasm disappeared, leaving her feeling as though a bucket of ice water had been dumped over her head.
Asana swallowed hard, batting aside the thought that if she could have had Taylor to herself, she wouldn’t have needed any trips to Fantasia. Wouldn’t have even started a dark website for people to cheat. Wouldn’t be so jaded and fearful of a relationship to begin with. But Taylor had made it clear that the two of them being together would never happen.
“What is it?” asked lover boy.
Asana glanced over her shoulder to see that the blonde was kneeling between his legs, a towel tucked under her knees, sucking him off like her life depended on it, while he watched Asana have a near meltdown over her phone.
“Work,” she lied.
She returned her attention to the cell, the picture, past memories swarming up from the depths where she’d buried them.
Who the fuck had taken this picture? And why the fuck were they sending it to her now?
Playtime was over. ...
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
