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  Dedicated to Miley Cyrus

  Contents

  MARTINSON E-MAIL

  FOREWORD BY REBECCA MARTINSON

  1. TEQUILA, LIME JUICE, AND ADDERALL

  2. TONIGHT’S CHOICES, TOMORROW’S FACEBOOK POSTS

  3. HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII . . .

  4. I’M JUST ADVOCATING FOR LESS DRAKE AND MORE TUPAC

  5. “SICK” AS IN “FUN”

  6. POSSIBLY ONE OF THE BEST NIGHTS OF MY LIFE

  7. COLLEGE GIRLS ARE CONSTANTLY COMPLAINING ABOUT . . . EVERYTHING

  8. SARAH

  9. KIND OF ADULTS

  10. SHARKS IN J.CREW

  11. HAVE FUN YOU GUYS!!

  12. COMPLETE SILENCE AND TOTAL DARKNESS

  13. Y’ALL, ARE WE FIGHTING?

  14. SISTERLY LOVE

  15. PROMISES

  16. FROZEN-YOGURT MACHINES

  17. SHE’S LIKE SMART-STUPID

  18. THE BZ GIRL

  19. VIRAL

  20. NORMAL HUMAN BEINGS DO CRAZY SHIT SOMETIMES

  21. UNICORNS, FETTUCCINE ALFREDO, AND A COFFIN

  22. GUILTY

  23. IT’S GOING TO BE SUPER AWKWARD

  24. LET’S DO THIS, BITCHES

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT TAYLOR BELL

  Martinson, Rebecca

  From:

  Martinson, Rebecca

  Sent:

  Thursday, April 18, 2013 10:30 AM

  To:

  Undisclosed Recipients

  Subject:

  We fucking suck so far

  If you just opened this like I told you to, tie yourself down to whatever chair you’re sitting in, because this email is going to be a rough fucking ride.

  We have been FUCKING UP in terms of nighttime events and general social interactions with Sigma Nu. I’ve been getting texts on texts about people LITERALLY being so fucking AWKWARD and so fucking BORING. If you’re reading this right now and saying to yourself “But oh em gee, Becca, I’ve been having so much fun with my sisters this week!,” then punch yourself in the face right now so that I don’t have to fucking find you on campus to do it myself.

  This week is about fostering relationships in the Greek community, and that’s not fucking possible if you’re going to stand around and talk to each other and not our matchup. Newsflash you stupid cocks: FRATS DON’T LIKE BORING SORORITIES. Oh wait, DOUBLE FUCKING NEWSFLASH: SIGMA NU IS NOT GOING TO WANT TO HANG OUT WITH US IF WE FUCKING SUCK, which by the way in case you’re an idiot and need it spelled out for you, WE FUCKING SUCK SO FAR.

  This also applies to you little shits that have talked openly about post-gaming at a different frat IN FRONT OF SIGMA NU BROTHERS. Are you people fucking retarded? That’s not a rhetorical question, I LITERALLY want you to email me back telling me if you’re mentally slow so I can make sure you don’t go to any more night-time events. If Sigma Nu openly said “Yeah we’re gonna invite Zeta over,” would you be happy? WOULD YOU? No you wouldn’t, so WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU DO IT TO THEM?? IN FRONT OF THEM?!! First of all, you SHOULDN’T be post-gaming at other frats, I don’t give a FUCK if your boyfriend is in it, if your brother is in it, or if your entire family is in that frat. YOU DON’T GO. YOU. DON’T. GO. And you ESPECIALLY do fucking NOT convince other girls to leave with you.

  “But Rebecca!,” you say in a whiny little bitch voice to your computer screen as you read this email, “I’ve been cheering on our teams at all the sports, doesn’t that count for something?” NO YOU STUPID FUCKING ASS HATS, IT FUCKING DOESN’T. DO YOU WANNA KNOW FUCKING WHY?!! IT DOESN’T COUNT BECAUSE YOU’VE BEEN FUCKING UP AT SOBER FUCKING EVENTS TOO. I’ve not only gotten texts about people being fucking WEIRD at sports (for example, being stupid shits and saying stuff like “durr, what’s kickball?” is not fucking funny), but I’ve gotten texts about people actually cheering for the opposing team. The opposing. Fucking. Team. ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID?!! I will fucking cunt punt the next person I hear about doing something like that.

  “Ohhh, I’m now crying because your email has made me oh so so sad.” Well good. If this email applies to you in any way, meaning if you are a little asswipe that stands in the corners at night or if you’re a weird shit that does weird shit during the day, this following message is for you:

  DO NOT GO TO TONIGHT’S EVENT.

  I’m not fucking kidding. Don’t go. Seriously, if you have done ANYTHING I’ve mentioned in this email and have some rare disease where you’re unable to NOT do these things, then you are HORRIBLE, I repeat, HORRIBLE PR FOR THIS CHAPTER. If you are one of the people that have told me “Oh nooo boo hoo I can’t talk to boys I’m too sober,” then I pity you because I don’t know how you got this far in life, and with that in mind don’t fucking show up unless you’re going to stop being a goddamn cock block for our chapter. Seriously. I swear to fucking God if I see anyone being a goddamn boner at tonight’s event, I will tell you to leave even if you’re sober. I’m not even kidding. Try me.

  And for those of you who are offended at this email, I would apologize but I really don’t give a fuck. Go fuck yourself.

  —Martinson

  Foreword

  BY REBECCA MARTINSON

  In the event that you’re either fucking stupid or blind and deaf, my name is Rebecca Martinson and I wrote that fine piece of Shakespeare-quality literature to my ex-sorority sisters awhile back. You know the email—the one Academy Award–nominated actor Michael Shannon read while channeling his inner serial killer on Funny or Die. Yeah, not gonna lie, he got it spot-on. I was dead fucking serious when I sent that email to my entire sorority LISTSERV, to the point where I was ready to go invest in a brand-spankin’-new pair of steel-toed boots in case any cunts needed a good punt.

  I remember spending the rest of that day giving exactly zero fucks about every text and every email that I got, because 90 percent of them were along the lines of “Errmagherd, Rebecca, people are upset! They’re crying! The fucking apocalypse is coming because of your email!” Well, good! People should’ve been crying. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I warned them in advance to buckle their seat belts; it’s not my problem if they can’t follow directions, now is it?

  In all seriousness, though, I was genuinely pissed. I cared so much about that sorority that to see people acting like turds with Asperger’s syndrome just set me off, and clearly I’m not a pretty picture when I’m mad. Girls shunned me, looked the other way when I walked by, the whole shebang. But I didn’t care. I said what needed to be said. If people chose to make me a social pariah because of it, then more power to them—go have fun scissoring in the chapter-house closets instead of talking to boys.

  And then the shitstorm hit: my face on the news, plastered all over the Internet, fricking Jon Stewart saying “cunt punt” on The Daily Show. I had people ambushing me left and right trying to get me on their television show for an interview, wanting pictures with “The Deranged Sorority Girl,” hitting me up to make me the star of my own reality TV show . . . But mostly the only thing I wanted to do was sleep. Believe it or not, it’s exhausting to have the majority of the country screaming at you, albeit out of earshot. I didn’t care about the fame—or, rather, infamy. I didn’t care about appearing on television. Was getting a call from the producers at Jimmy Kimmel cool? Fuck yeah. But all I cared about right then was how shitty I’d unintentionally made my chapter look.

  Which brings us to this fine piece of literature . .
. When I was asked to write the Foreword for Taylor Bell’s book, I was skeptical. No one ever gets sorority life right when it comes to putting it down in words, everything always turns into drunk chicks making out at parties while wearing Greek letters. So I said I’d be happy to write a Foreword . . . but only if the book was actually an accurate depiction of sorority life.

  And you know what? This book fucking tells it like it fucking is. You won’t find anything in here about how all sorority girls are vacuously stupid. You won’t find anything in here about midnight pillow fights between girls dressed solely in their bras and panties. And you sure as fuck won’t read anything about how a sorority girl’s sole purpose in life is to be perpetually drunk and do the spread eagle for wasted frat bros. What you will find, however, is a story that shows the bonds that form over time between sorority women, and how making the simple decision to join Greek life can change a person in more positive ways than I could have ever imagined. Even though I was only in a sorority for a year, I have to admit that I left a better person than I was when I joined.

  I’ll leave you with this simple quote. It’s something all sorority women have heard, but I don’t think anyone ever gives any thought to how true it is.

  “From the outside looking in, you can never understand it. From the inside looking out, you can never explain it.”

  If you weren’t in a sorority, this book is your only chance at understanding Greek life. And if you were, you’ll be blown away by how much of this makes total fucking sense.

  Okay. I’m done. You can start reading, ya fuckin’ assclown.

  1.

  TEQUILA, LIME JUICE, AND ADDERALL

  “Name?” he asked.

  “Taylor Bell.”

  He pretended to squint down at his clipboard, using it as an excuse to give me an up-down scan. Mirrored Ray-Bans sat low on his nose and LEGALIZE COCAINE was printed in bold black letters on his neon green tank top.

  “Hmmm . . . Taco Bell,” he said, smirking and still eyeing me, “I don’t see any Taco Bells on the list, but you have an honest face and an honest . . . ass, so I’m gonna go ahead and let you in.”

  “I’m honored, thanks.” He opened the door to the house, and I could immediately feel the mayhem booming inside. There was no turning back. I was going to a frat party, the end. I took a deep breath and stepped into the madness.

  The house was a massive Victorian mansion with a vaulted foyer that featured one of those huge curved staircases that you only see in movies. There were two hallways, which must’ve led to the first-floor bedrooms, branching out from either side of the main room. It wasn’t hard to imagine a century’s worth of kids getting hammered in here, hiding behind the illusion of public service. The general scent of the house, however, was equal parts locker room and Victoria’s Secret, and my sandals were sticking to the booze-soaked floor (#gross). My plan was to smile at all the drunk people, stay for ten minutes or until I found Jack, and get the fuck out.

  I smoothed my dress and gauged the vibe of the party—it was a raucous symphony of electronic music and the wild screams of college kids in the prime of their lives. Decorations were sparse except for fog machines in every corner and one enormous disco ball. A DJ booth had been set up, and some Skrillex song was blasting from enormous speakers that hung from the ceiling. There were girls everywhere. Dancing on tables, grinding on guys, and taking selfies. Two of them were making out with each other while taking selfies.

  “Boom! Those are some gold-medal gazongas!” an overweight, overly confident bro slurred in my direction. He was flanked by two other kind-of-fat guys who raised their Solo cups in my direction as if to congratulate me.

  “Thank you?” I said, offering up a half smile. Even though he was clearly drunk, it seemed polite to accept his compliment.

  Obviously the party was not designed with sobriety in mind, so I went looking for a drink. Luckily, lining the walls of the main room were a bunch of lanky boys with mediocre faces holding silver trays with Solo cups filled to the brim with a suspect red liquid. They looked like twelve-year-olds. A shirtless, kind-of-cute blond dude with big teeth leaned in toward me and grinned.

  “ ’Sup, hot stuff? Drink?”

  “Sure. Thanks,” I said, grabbing a Solo cup off the tray. I took a sip. It tasted like rubbing alcohol, sugar, and sadness. Downing one would’ve been blackout city, so I put the cup back on his tray. “Just kidding. What else you got?”

  “Keg’s in the back,” he said, motioning with the tray. A few cups toppled over, sloshing red punch down his arm. “Shit!”

  “HEYYYY, RUSSELLSPROUT!” a familiar voice shouted. “What’d I tell you about spilling?” Suddenly, Jack Swanson, the reason I’d come to this godforsaken party to begin with, appeared in front of me, even more handsome than I’d remembered. I’d only met Jack two days earlier, when he sat next to me in my women’s studies class, but I’d spent almost every hour since then wondering if he’d invited me to this party because he liked me or because it was his job as a frat boy to get wide-eyed freshman girls to the house. I was never the type to obsess over guys, but I was going with it. Jack had the type of smile that stuck in your brain for days on end.

  He slung his big arm around Russell, who was shitfaced. Cute, but shitfaced, and he suddenly looked almost scared.

  “Sir! Um . . . uhh . . . don’t spill?” offered Russell.

  “Correct. Now, please apologize to my friend Taylor here.”

  “Sorry, Taylor.”

  “Also, Sprout, do you mind doing one more little favor?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So, you do mind?”

  “No, sir. I meant no, sir, I don’t mind.”

  “Great. Drop and give me fifty.”

  Without even a moment’s hesitation, Russell turned, handed his tray to the pledge next to him, dropped to the floor, and started doing push-ups.

  “I’m gonna need to hear you count,” Jack said, crossing his arms and taking a step back to survey the push-ups. Russell looked like he was having a hard time. His face was turning red and he was panting.

  “Five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight . . .”

  “That’s better. Hey, Taylor.” Jack smiled, turned toward me, and placed a foot on Russell’s back, crossing his arms. “Glad you could make it to our little get-together. I thought you weren’t into the ‘frat scene,’ ” he said, making air quotes.

  “I’m not, but I thought I’d try something new.”

  “Well, I’m glad to see you have an adventurous spirit.”

  “Adventure’s my middle name.” I smiled back at him, immediately regretting my words.

  He laughed a bit. “Alright. Noted.”

  Jack was so not my type, but there was something about him that gave me serious butterflies. He was dreamy, and I never say guys are dreamy. His skin was golden, maybe from being on a boat all summer, and his eyes were blue and kind. Even though Jack was acting like a typical bro, I could tell there was something else there. It was actually kind of confusing.

  “Where’s your drink?” he asked.

  “Well, I did have the pleasure of sampling the rape juice, if that’s what you mean. It was delicious but a bit too sweet for my taste. I’m gonna grab a beer. You want one?”

  “No, no, no, that’s not how this works. I retrieve the beers; you drink them. Not the other way around.”

  “Well, then, yes, please.”

  “Dope. Be right back.”

  And with that, Jack took his foot off of Russell’s back and disappeared into the mass of bodies.

  Russell made a loud guttural sound mid-push-up and a fountain of pink vomit shot out of his mouth onto the floor in front of me. I jumped back, barely dodging the spray of puke headed toward my sandals. As much as I wanted to wait for Jack, the toxic odor rising from Russell’s mess encouraged a change in locale. Standing next to a puker is not a good look for anyone. I slowly backed away, mumbling, “Feel better.”

  “HEY, FRESHMAN!” I heard
a voice scream. I turned around to see a kind-of-pretty, kind-of-short brunette making a beeline for me with a smile on her face. She was sporting a short J.Crew skirt and a polo. She hugged me and laughed. “I’m Meg. How autistic is this party?”

  “It’s definitely on the spectrum.”

  “What?”

  “Um . . . nothing. Sorry, have we met?” I asked her as she pulled me into a corner.

  “Nope, but it’s your lucky day. I’m gonna be your Big Sis. Or at least I’ll probably be your Big. Or at least I reallllly think I should be your Big because you’re fucking cute as fuck.” She grabbed me by the elbow and started weaving us through the crowd, hopefully toward the kitchen, because I still needed a drink. “Please tell me you didn’t drink the jungle juice.”

  “Um, no, but you must be mistaking me for someone else. I haven’t rushed or gotten a bid to pledge or whatever. I don’t really—”

  “Oh, it’s okay. No one has yet.”

  “Rushed?”

  “Yesssss,” Meg whispered.

  “Oh.”

  “But you def will. Rush Beta Zeta, that is. Aaaaaand we’re totally not talking about this now because we don’t want to be involved in a dirty rush scandal. Dealing with the Panhel is never cute. Trust,” she said as she pulled out her phone and quickly responded to a text message. “Excuse me!” she yelled at a guy and girl attempting to dance while eating each other’s faces on the dance floor. The girl looked up at us, squealed, and went in for a drunken hug.

  “Meg!”

  “Sabrina! Please stop dry humping Benjamin on the dance floor. It’s gross. You need to set a good example. There are children present,” she nodded in my direction.

  The girl looked at us sheepishly.

  “I kid! I kid!” Meg roared with laughter. Then, without missing a beat, she put her free hand on the girl’s shoulder, got up in her face, and calmly said, “Please use a condom tonight, love.” As we walked away, she turned to me, “That’s Sabrina. She’s a junior BZ and has been with her boyfriend, Ben, since high school. They fuck anywhere and everywhere and have had, like, ten pregnancy scares. So retarded.”