My Eight Sugar Mommies Are SistersChapter 3

On Wednesday evening, my cousin Beatrice parked her cherry-red sports car right in front of the campus gates, blocking the path.

"Oliver, you have three minutes. If you don't get out here, I'm driving straight to the English department and blasting celebratory pop music."

Students were streaming in and out of the gates. The red car sat there, loud and burning like a flame. Beatrice leaned against the door, her sunglasses hooked in her collar, holding a cup of boba tea.

On the forum, they called her "Girl #3." The comments suggested she looked like she chewed up and spat out young college boys for breakfast.

She swung the passenger door open. "Get in. Your mom wants me to drive you home to grab some things."

"Mom knows about the forum?"

"Oh, she knows. She even asked me why I was only ranked third on your list of 'conquests'."

I nearly squeezed my boba cup to bursting. "Can you guys please stop treating this like a joke?"

Beatrice climbed back in, wearing a smug, irritating grin. I ignored her.

By the time I returned to campus, things had escalated.

I went to my evening class, left my backpack on my seat, and went to the restroom to wash my hands.

When I returned, my backpack strap was severed. The cut was clean, clearly done with a utility knife.

My textbooks were scattered all over the floor. Scribbled across the cover of my main text in thick red marker were the words: PLAYER, GET OUT.

Snickers echoed through the classroom. A few guys kept their heads down, staring at their phones, but the smirks on their faces were unmistakable.

Wesley sat in the front row. Turning around to see the books on the floor, his face immediately crumpled into a look of shock and deep concern.

He hurried over and bent down to help me gather them. "Oliver, are you okay? Who would do something like this?"

I placed my hand firmly over the book, staring up at him. "Don't touch it."

Wesley's hand froze in midair. His eyes filled with tears instantly. "I was only trying to help."

I let out a cold laugh. "Every time someone does something to me, you just happen to be standing right there. Every time someone drags me, you're the one playing the victim. Don't you get tired of the act?"

Wesley's tears spilled over. "I don't understand why you hate me so much. Yes, I liked the post, but I never told anyone to bully you! You can't just blame me for everything just because people happen to side with me."

The people around him immediately leaped to his defense.

"Don't cry, Wesley."

"Oliver, that's enough out of you."

"Just because he doesn't have your mysterious sugar mommies backing him up doesn't mean you get to drag him through the mud."

Hearing the phrase "doesn't have backing," I suddenly wanted to laugh.

They truly had no idea. Not a single person in this room knew who I actually was. To them, I was just some low-life juggling eight women, unable to explain my relationships. They believed they were on the side of justice, which made them feel entirely righteous in hurling the most venomous insults.

That night, I returned to my dorm to find my bed soaked. Sweet boba milk tea had been poured all over my comforter, pillow, and sheets. The cloying, sugary scent was nauseating.

I gathered up my sheets and carried them to the washroom. Under the cold tap, the milk tea ran into the drain in a sticky, murky stream. I knelt by the sink, scrubbing the fabric over and over again.

Not yet. It's not time.

I would wait until they played every single card they had. Keeping a cool head and letting the line run long before reeling in the catch was a trait encoded into the Garrison DNA.