Virgin Camp

Ryan’s POV

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I muttered under my breath, as I started to reach under my chair. At the last minute, I decided to make a scene. Yes, I was good at that. It was about time someone shook up this perfect little camp with their white pressed polo shirts. I got up from my chair. Instead on bending down to look underneath the chair for my number, I kicked the thing over. It made a loud, clattering noise, and everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at me.

I rolled my eyes and glanced at the pink number on the bottom of my chair. “Bingo!” I called out, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “Number three!” My voice echoed throughout the log cabin as everyone continued to stare. “Whatever,” I muttered, sitting down on another chair and saluting the room with my middle finger. The only other person sitting at my table snorted in laughter.

I raised my eyebrows at her, but she just stared back at me. She had balls, I’d give her that. Bored with this pathetic camp already, I pushed out from my chair and headed for the door.

“Excuse me.” I stopped and turned, my combat boots squeaking loudly on the shiny, wood floors. “Where do you think you’re going?” I stared at the petite woman with the stupid bob, willing her to spontaneously combust. She didn’t.

I sighed loudly and placed a hand on my hip, expectant. I’d grown used to lectures. Hell, I anticipated them. But the lady didn’t say anything. She made some sort of hand gesture and then someone was tugging on my arm and I was being dragged out the door. Everyone stared after me.

I’d never been good at first impressions.

Once outside, I let them have it. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I yelled. “You can’t just man handle me like that and expect me to - ” I stopped mid-sentence when I actually looked up at the person I was verbally abusing. He was fucking beautiful, okay.

He chuckled and crossed his arms over his chest. “You better get used to being man handled,” he said. “It happens quite a lot here.” Great. A fucking asshole. Why were all the good-looking ones so unpleasant?

What annoyed me most about him, however, was that I had nothing to say back to him. No one had ever left me speechless before. It was beyond irritating.

“Is there a logical reason for this physical abuse?” I finally spat out, crossing my arms over my chest. He raised his eyebrows at me, a smirk spreading across his unfairly-gorgeous face.

“You were making a scene, so you had to be dealt with,” he said in low tones, suggesting something else. I raised my eyebrows at him.

“Who the fuck are you?” I spat.

“Virgin slayer number three.”

Bingo.

• • •

Group four was on a completely different level when it came to ridiculous. This group defined ridiculous. It was bad enough that I was stuck at this stupid camp, now I was dumped into a band of misfits and social rejects. These kids were the ones at this camp for a really good fucking reason: no one else would take their virginity. Ever.

I don’t like to use the term “ugly” because I was bullied as a kid. Let’s just say that the various people in group four were genetically disadvantaged. These were the drop-kicks of society and this camp must have been like a shining beacon of hope to them.

Ridiculous, like I said.

This got me to thinking about my own appearance. Was I that unfortunate looking? Was I the one who was genetically disadvantaged? I knew that it couldn’t be true. Reed, Tristan and Shia had all admitted that I was “hot” by their standards, but they wouldn’t fuck me because I was like their little sister. Pathetic.

It was just a sick joke the devil with the bob had decided to play on me. She was probably sitting in a log cabin somewhere, roaring with laughter at the thought of me stuck in the middle of all these losers. This was her twisted way of getting back at me for causing a scene. Judging by the stares I was receiving, everyone else knew I belonged in group one.

Now, I’m not being vain here. I’m being realistic. A skinny blonde with a small frame and an advantage in the chest size area shouldn’t even be considered for group four. I’d worked out just how things worked around this camp. I knew what they were up to.

I was just a kink in their hose, a bump in their road. And so they’d dumped me in lousy group four for their own entertainment. Hilarious.

“Problem, Lorraine?” I looked up at the woman in white that was talking to me. I smiled sweetly.

“Oh, I don’t have a problem,” I said sarcastically. “Everything is just fan-fucking-tastic.”

She flinched. Brilliant. I watched her as she regained her composure and took in a deep breath before addressing me for the second time.

“Lorraine, I am requesting you to please join the others at the hair and make-up stations,” she said. I raised my eyebrows at her, daring her to make me move. She made a weird hand gesture, and before I knew it, Virgin Slayer number three was dragging me to join the others.

“Where the fuck do you even come from?” I said, confused. He kept popping up out of nowhere. I hadn’t even seen him when I entered the smaller cabin. It seemed like he just materialized out of thin air whenever one of the Whities clicked their fingers.

“Chicago,” he said as he dumped me with the others, before disappearing again. Where do you come from? Chicago. What a smart ass.

I tuned out as another one of the Whities droned on about the fabulousness of Virgin Camp. Before I knew it, I was being pushed into a chair in front of a mirror. One of the Whities started handling my hair, picking up a brush. Before I could ask her what the hell she was doing, she started raking the brush through my knotted hair. I complained loudly, of course.

“When was the last time you brushed your hair?” she exclaimed, her eyes widening as she looked down at it. I shrugged.

“The sixth grade,” I said. I saw her roll her eyes at me in the mirror and continue to kill my scalp. After applying product after product and continuing to brush, all the knots finally came out, along with a whole handful of my hair. I glared at her as she pushed me towards the rest of the group, who had already had their hair done and were a step ahead of me.

I refused to let them take my tank top. It was over-sized, black, and said it huge letters: ‘There’s a zombie killer in all of us.’ It was provocative, to say the least. I refused to let them “style” me in any way. I wasn’t going to let them dress me up in pretty pink dresses and expect me to act like a girl. That was not happening. The occupants of group four didn’t look as genetically disadvantaged after their “treatment” (as the camp called it), but the camp didn’t exactly have any plastic surgeons on hand.

The girls of group four were dressed to show off their most desirable features. The girls that were a little on the plus side wore revealing dresses to display their one redeeming feature – their breasts. The awkward, pale-faced kids had been given spray-tans, and now looked like a jumbled bag of Doritos. The acne-prone kids had been issued skin treatments and given haircuts that covered most of their faces. The camp certainly wasn’t fucking around – metaphorically, of course.

I stood defiant in my over-sized tank top. The Whities had managed to rustle me into a pair of tiny shorts that left little to the imagination. I had to come to some sort of agreement to make them let me keep my own shirt. My legs felt awfully bare, used to the baggy cargo pants I often wore back at home. I rolled my eyes for what seemed like the millionth time that day and followed the single-file line along the concrete paths to another cabin where we were supposed to “get to know” our personal Slayers.

I noticed the girl from my table that morning further up the line. I wondered why she was in group four. I would have placed her in at least group three. She wasn’t that bad. She was wearing a short denim skirt and a tank top that barely covered her pale skin. At least they’d sorted out her re-growth. I smiled to myself, reveling in my sarcastic inner-monologue.

“What are you so happy about?” the red-haired girl in front of me snapped. I rolled my eyes and threw my head back as we walked, looking up at the sky. I heard her mutter something under her breath, but didn’t care to ask what it was. I wasn’t going to associate with her. I was going to get out of this camp before the summer was over, with my virginity. Not because I was dead-set on keeping it, necessarily, but because it would be the greatest level of rebellion. I’d really stick it to the Whities. I’d show them that they couldn’t mess with me. It would be brilliant on so many levels.

Sometimes, my own brilliancy astounded me.

My thoughts of brilliance were interrupted by a low voice that I did not want to invade my air space.

“You’ll break your neck if you keep that up.”

I rolled my head forward slowly to stare at Virgin Slayer number three, who was as cocky as ever. His smirk was on full display, his unfairly attractive lips turned up at the corners. He took his sunglasses off and placed them on top of his head, in the midst of his tousled, dark brown hair. The hazel eyes that stared back at me were taunting me. He was enjoying my frustration.

I instantly hated him.

“I don’t like you,” I said bluntly, looking him right in the eyes. He laughed, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. This was killing me.

“You don’t have to like me, sweetheart,” he said with a wink. If I kept rolling my eyes like this, they’d fall out and roll along the fucking floor. He grabbed my arm and pulled me inside the cabin where everyone else was. Once again, I’d been slacking off and was behind the rest of the group.

The woman with the bob was back. Oh, lordy. I noticed that everyone else from the camp was also inside, the group one girls looking gorgeous. I hated the way they stood and the pretentious looks they had in their eyes. I hated the way they held their chins just that little bit higher and looked at the rest of us like they knew they were better. Which they were, but still.

“Fuck this,” I muttered under my breath. He jabbed me in the ribs with his elbow. I bit down on my lip to stop myself from complaining loudly. “Asshole,” I hissed. He looked amused, which was annoying in itself.

After the woman with the bob had finished explaining how the Slayers worked, she left, leaving us to “socialize” before dinner. I turned to Slayer number three, who was still looking at me with amusement. He wore a name tag with a big number 3 on it, and an even bigger smirk on his face.

I watched as girls from other groups all made their way over to him. I guess the camp wanted to give him variety. He couldn’t just fuck the genetically disadvantaged girls. No, he had to have a good fuck to keep him satisfied. Good luck finding that in a camp full of virgins. I was sure by looking at the campers, however, that some of them weren’t virgins. They looked too confident, too ready. The Slayers were attractive. It figured they’d sign up for the camp just for the thrill of it.

As a small group of girls started congregating around me, Slayer number three looked around at all of us. He made us all introduce ourselves by name, which was ridiculous, as we were all wearing fucking name tags. I was the last one his hazel eyes landed on.

He looked at my name tag sceptically, raising one eyebrow.

“Ryan?”

“Got a problem?” I shot back at him. I heard one of the other girls groan, obviously not impressed with me. Not like I gave a fuck.

“Nope,” he said. “I’m Damon.” He winked at me and licked his lips, causing me to grimace at him in disgust. What a filthy fucking asshole. I bet all the Slayers were just like him – repulsive teenagers with nothing better to do then fuck a truckload of virgins for their own sick form of entertainment.

He was just a demon in skin-tight jeans.