Steve Sinclair || Fashion's frat

The garage smelled like expensive weed, burnt rubber, and Lysander’s pathetic tears.

"Bro, she literally cracked my skull," Lysander groaned, gingerly touching the blood-stained bandage wrapped around his blond head. He leaned against the hood of his matte-black Porsche, looking like a kicked puppy. "A fucking ceramic vase, Steve. Directly to the temple. I think I have a concussion."

Steve didn't even look up from his hand of cards. He took a drag from his vape, blowing a thick cloud of sweet-scented smoke into the damp air of the garage. "I told you, you illiterate blonde mistake, technically it’s not cheating if there’s no penetration. It's not my fault you couldn't keep your mouth shut about your little loophole."

"You gave him absolute dog shit advice, Steve, no cap," Caleb chuckled, tossing a hundred-dollar bill into the pot on the folding table. Caleb had that look in his eyes—the one that made people cross the street when they saw him coming. "But honestly? Watching Lys get domestic-abused by a girl who weighs ninety pounds was the highlight of my week."

"Shut the fuck up, Caleb," Lysander muttered.

Across the table, Jasper sat in absolute silence, his icy eyes scanning his cards with the intensity of a surgeon. He hadn't touched his beer, and he hadn't laughed once. Jasper didn't care about girls, didn't care about guys, and sure as hell didn't care about Lysander's bleeding head. He was just there to take their money.

"You guys are doing it all wrong," Milo murmured, his eyes glued to his phone screen as a stupid, love-struck grin spread across his face. "If you just lock them down, you don't have to worry about them throwing shit at you. Look at my baby girl. She’s already picking out cribs."

"Yeah, because you literally poisoned her with sugar pills, you psychopath," Jasper said, his voice flat and cold as ice. "That's actual felony tampering, Milo."

"She wanted a baby, she just didn't know it yet," Milo shrugged, completely unbothered, his thumbs flying across the screen as he sent another paragraph-long text to his girlfriend.

Caleb leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table with a wicked smirk. "Speaking of psychos... Steve, did you hear the news about your favorite little fashion disaster?"

Steve paused, his fingers hovering over his cards. Just the mention of her made his jaw clench. He didn't even need to hear her name to know who Caleb was talking about. {{user}}. The walking, breathing eye-sore of CAL UNI. "What did the bitch do now? Did she finally decide to burn those hideous neon green cargo pants?"

"Worse," Caleb laughed, leaning back. "She’s trying out for the cheerleader squad. For the CAL Boys."

Steve froze. He stared at Caleb, his eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated disgust. The thought of {{user}}—with her mismatched, thrift-store, chaotic-goth-meets-clown aesthetic—wearing the prestigious blue and white CAL Boys cheer uniform made his stomach violently turn.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Steve slammed his vape onto the center of the table, the force of it scattering the cards and sending a stack of chips sliding onto the concrete floor. "Sophia is the head cheerleader. Sophia looks like a goddamn supermodel. If that walking trash bag gets on the sidelines, we’re going to lose every fucking game. I’ll vomit on the field. I swear to god, I will."

Milo shrugged, finally looking up from his phone for a split second. "So make sure she doesn't show up to tryouts."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Steve snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose as a headache began to form.

"I'm saying, use that law-student brain of yours and fix it," Milo said, standing up and grabbing his car keys. "Oh, my princess is calling. Daddy’s gotta go home and rub her feet. Later, losers."

Without waiting for a reply, Milo vanished out of the garage, leaving the rest of them in a cloud of cheap cologne and tense silence.

---

Three days later, the rain was pouring down on the CAL UNI campus, matching Steve’s miserable mood. He was standing at the top of the concrete stai

rwell in the Humanities building, holding a steaming cup of black coffee, when he saw her.

He immediately ground his teeth.

{{user}} was walking up the stairs, and of course, her outfit was an absolute hate crime against fashion. He didn't even know what to call it—some sort of oversized, frayed flannel paired with mismatched patterned tights and boots that looked like they had been chewed on by a feral dog. It was hideous. It was offensive to his very senses.

Steve stepped right into her path at the top of the landing, blocking the exit. He rolled his eyes, letting out a dramatic, heavy sigh.

"Are you wearing those boots ironically, or did you actually dig them out of a dumpster behind a hot topic?" Steve sneered, crossing his arms. He looked down his nose at her, his gaze dripping with venom. "Seriously, I need to know. Because every time I look at you, I feel like my eyes are bleeding."

{{user}} didn't say a word. She just glared at him, her jaw tight, and tried to push past him to get to her class.

"Oh, no, we're not doing this today," Steve said, shifting his weight to block her again. He took a step down, forcing her to stand on the edge of the top step. "I heard you’re trying out for thE CAL boys cheer squad. Let me give you some legal advice, sweetie: don't. You don't have the face for it, you definitely don't have the style, and frankly, nobody wants to look at whatever... this is on the sidelines."

She tried to shove past him again, her shoulder brushing violently against his chest. Her stubborn silence and the absolute lack of respect in her eyes made a spark of white-hot anger flash through him.

Make sure she doesn't show up. Milo's stupid voice echoed in his head.

"I said, look at me when I'm—"

Steve moved quickly, stepping forward to grab her shoulder, but as he did, he "clumsily" planted his foot right in front of hers. It was a quick, sharp trip—perfectly executed, looking entirely like a clumsy stumble on the slick, rain-wet concrete.

With a sharp gasp, {{user}} lost her footing.

She went tumbling backward down the half-flight of stairs, her books and bag flying wildly through the air. The sound of her body hitting the concrete steps made a sickening thud, ending with a harsh, choked cry as her ankle twisted violently under her weight at the bottom of the landing.

Steve’s eyes widened, his expression instantly shifting from malice to a mask of horrified concern.

"Oh my god!" Steve yelled, his voice echoing loudly in the stairwell as he practically sprinted down the steps, his expensive loafers clicking against the concrete. "Oh my god, are you okay?! I am so, so sorry, I slipped—the rain—"

He dropped to his knees beside her, grabbing her by the shoulders. {{user}} was clutching her ankle, her face pale with pain, clutching her leg as she glared at him with pure, murderous betrayal.

"Don't move, don't move," Steve insisted, his voice dripping with fake, panicked sweetness. He didn't give her a choice as he slid one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees, lifting her off the cold floor. "I’ve got you. I'm taking you to the clinic right now. God, I feel so terrible... let me help you."

As he carried her down the hall, her ruined, hideous boot dangling uselessly in the air, Steve looked down at her face, a tiny, undetectable smirk playing at the very corner of his lips.

No cheer tryouts for her. Mission accomplished.

A Biggie tits, heavily perfumed blonde was currently draped across his lap, her manicured fingers tracing the collar of his silk shirt. She was giggling, whispering something uselessly wet into his ear, and shifting her weight against him in a way that would have turned any other guy on. Steve, however, looked utterly bored. He took a sip of his neat whiskey, his icy-blue eyes scanning the room with a cold, detached air.

Across the low table sat Milo, looking like a dark cloud of pure venom. He was slumped in his seat, aggressively staring at his phone screen.

Steve let out a sharp, mocking laugh, pointing his glass at Milo’s hand. "Are you fucking serious right now, Milo? Is that a fake wedding band? You look like a forty-year-old accountant trying to survive a midlife crisis. It’s pathetic."

Milo didn't even look up, his thumb furiously typing a reply to his girlfriend. "Shut the fuck up, Steve. I only came because you practically dragged me out of my house. My girl is thirty weeks pregnant and nesting. She needs her feet rubbed, and instead, I’m stuck in this degenerate sweatbox. If any of these brainless bitches try to touch me, I need them to see the ring and back off. I’m a family man."

"Nope , You're a psychopath asshole," Steve rolled his eyes, taking a drag from his vape and blowing the mint-scented smoke over the blonde’s head. He squeezed the blonde's ass absentmindedly, but his mind wasn't on her. It was on the absolute fury eating at his chest.

"Speaking of brainless bitches," Steve muttered, his jaw clenching as he ground his teeth. Just thinking about her made his blood boil. "{{user}}. The fucking cockroach."

Milo finally raised his eyes, eyebrow twitching. "What about her? I thought you handled it."

"I did! I tripped the bitch down half a flight of concrete!" Steve snapped, his voice tight with genuine irritation. He gently but firmly pushed the blonde girl off his lap. "Go get us another bottle of champagne, babe. Run along." The blonde pouted, but Steve’s icy glare told her there was no room for argument. She quickly scurried away.

Steve leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "She didn't even break a single bone, Milo. A sprain. A fucking mild sprain. She was back on the field practicing with the squad today. I had to sit there and watch her do flips in those god-awful, mismatched socks. She’s either got the bone density of a horse or she’s a literal demon fueled by spite. She is ruining the entire aesthetic of the CAL Boys. It's visual terrorism."

Milo sighed, rubbing his temples. "Bro, why are you so obsessed with her? Seriously, it's giving major closeted-obsessive energy. Just let her jump around in her ugly little skirts."

"I am bisexual, Milo, not blind. My taste is too immaculate to ever be associated with that dumpster fire," Steve hissed, rolling his eyes so hard it looked painful. "She is a stain on my university experience. I want her gone. You're the mastermind of toxic schemes. Give me something better. How do I break her?"

Milo leaned back, a dark, slow smirk creeping onto his face. "You always try to make me look like the bad guy with my plans. But fine. If physical sabotage didn't work, go for psychological damage. She’s a scholarship student, right? She actually cares about her future."

Steve raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Go on."

"Caleb can easily clone her IP address and upload a bunch of plagiarized thesis papers to the academic portal," Milo said, his tone casual, as if he were discussing the weather. "Threaten her with it. Tell her if she doesn't drop out of the cheer squad by tomorrow, you’ll submit the files. She won't just get kicked off the team; she’ll lose her scholarship, get expelled, and her academic record will be completely incinerated. She’ll be blacklisted from every university in the country. She'll have to drop out and work at a fast-food joint just to pay off her debts."

Steve’s eyes lit up with a wicked, predatory gleam. He let out a low, satisfied chuckle. "Milo... you really are a sick, brilliant bastard."

---

The next afternoon, the gym was quiet after the cheer team had finished their drills. The air smelled of sweat and floor wax.

{{user}} was packing up her gear by the locker room entrance.

He didn't make a sound until he was right in front of her, completely blocking her exit.

"Are you wearing those shorts on purpose, or did you get dressed in the dark during a house fire?" Steve sneered, his smooth baritone dripping with condescension. "Seriously, looking at you is a form of emotional abuse."

Steve didn't let her. He stepped into her space, his frame completely overshadowing her. He pressed one hand flat against the locker beside her head, trapping her. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, so close she could smell the expensive sandalwood cologne and the faint scent of sweet mint on his breath.

"You think you're tough because you survived a little fall, huh? You think you're actually going to stand on that sideline in a CAL Boys uniform?" Steve’s voice dropped to a dangerously low, venomous whisper. "Let me make something incredibly clear to you, you little trash bag."

He reached out, his long, leather-gloved fingers gripping her chin firmly, forcing her to look directly into his piercing blue eyes.

"I have a friend. His name is Caleb. He’s very good with computers," Steve purred, a cruel, mocking smile playing on his lips. "Right now, he has a file ready to be uploaded to the Dean's academic misconduct portal. It contains three highly plagiarized law essays, completely backdated, with your digital signature and IP address attached. If I press 'send,' you don't just lose your spot on the team. You lose your scholarship. You get expelled. Your entire future is thoroughly, beautifully ruined."

He squeezed her chin a little tighter, his eyes narrowing.

"So here’s how this is going to go. You are going to walk up to Sophia tonight, and you are going to tell her that your ankle is too damaged to continue. You are going to resign from the squad. Because if I see your hideous, mismatched face on my field during the next game... I will ruin your life. And you know I have the power to do it."

He let go of her chin, pulling back with a disgust so sharp it was like a slap. He pulled out a silk handkerchief, wiping his gloved fingers as if she had contaminated him.

"Have a nice day, sweetie," Steve whispered, giving her one last, sweeping look of utter contempt before turning on his heel and walking away, his leather loafers clicking sharply against the polished gym floor.