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Somebody shows up with two bottles of tequila, and of course this is consumed as fast as possible. Remember any of this?”
“Most of it.”
“You're twenty years old, just finishing your sophomore year--”
“Got that.”
“The tequila gets mixed with Red Bull, and you and the gang start doing shots. I'm sure you've had a few shots.”
Kyle nodded, his eyes never leaving the screen.
“At some point, clothes start coming off, and the owner of the cell phone decides to secretly record this. Guess he wanted his own little video of the girls without their tops. Do you remember the apartment, Kyle?”
“Yes, I lived there for a year.”
"We've examined the place. It's a dump, of course, like a lot of college housing, but, according to the landlord, hasn't changed. Our best guess is that the guy with the cell phone placed it on the narrow counter that seperates the small kitchen from the den. The counter
seems to be a catchall for textbooks, phone books, empty beer bottles, pretty much everything that passed through the apartment at one time or another."
“That's correct.”
“So our man pulls out his cell phone and sneaks over to the counter, and in the midst of a wild party he turns it on and hides it next to a book. The opening scene is pretty wild. We've studied it carefully, and there are six girls and nine boys, all dancing and in various stages of undress. Ring a bell, Kyle?”
“Some of it, yes.”
“We know all the names.”
“You gonna show it to me or just talk about it?”
“Don't be so anxious to see it.” With that, Wright punched another key. “It's 11:14 p.m. when the video begins,” he said, then hit another key. The screen suddenly exploded into a frenzy of loud music--Widespread Panic playing “Aunt Avis” from Bombs and Butterflies --and gyrating bodies. Somewhere in the back of his brain Kyle had hoped for a dim, grainy, fuzzy clip of a bunch of Beta idiots drinking in the dark. Instead, he gawked at a remarkably clear video shot from a tiny phone camera. The angle chosen by the unknown owner of the phone provided a view of almost the entire den at 4880 East Chase, apartment 6B.
All fifteen hell-raisers appeared to be very drunk. All six girls were indeed topless, as were most of the guys. The dance was a group grope with no two partners moving together for more than a few seconds. Everyone held a drink in one hand; half had a cigarette or a joint in the other. All twelve bouncing breasts were fair game for the guys. In fact, all exposed flesh, male or female, was available to everyone. Touching and clutching were encouraged. Bodies came together, hunching and lurching, then parted and moved to the next one. Some of the guests were loud and rowdy, while others appeared to be fading under the flood of alcohol and chemicals. Most appeared to be singing
along with the band. Several locked lips in long kisses while their free hands searched for even more intimate places.
“I believe that's you with the sunglasses,” Wright said smugly.
“Thank you.”
Sunglasses, yellow Pirates cap, off-white gym shorts drooping low, a lean body with pale winter skin in need of sunshine. A plastic cup in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Mouth open to sing along. A drunken fool. A twenty-year-old lunatic on the verge of another blackout.
Now, five years later, there was no nostalgia, no longing for those rowdy and carefree college days. He didn't miss the hell-raising, the hangovers, the late-morning wake-ups in strange beds. But at the same time, there was no remorse. Kyle felt a little embarrassed that he'd been caught on tape, but it was a long time ago. His college days had been pretty typical, hadn't they? He'd partied no more and certainly no less than virtually everyone he knew.
The music stopped for a moment, between songs, and more shots were prepared and passed around. One of the girls fell into a chair and appeared to be done for the night. Then another song began.
“This goes for about eight more