Total pages in book: 165
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
“And get directly to class,” she yells after us as Liv and I walk through the office toward the door. “If I get another whiff of one more fight between you two, I’m calling your parents to pick you up!”
But we’re already in the hallway, the door swinging closed behind us. I don’t turn around, and I don’t slow down, charging down the empty hallway as teachers drone on in their classrooms, and I descend the stairs, finding my way to the locker room.
Jaeger’s on my tail the entire time, though, and I feel her eyes on my back. I hope she jumps me again.
I hope she does.
I push through the door, the offices and locker room empty as everyone is already outside. I stop at my locker and dial in the combination, throwing it open.
“Just had to be orange juice, didn’t it?” I gripe, pulling my Polo off over my head. “Everything is sticky.”
It’s down in my goddamn socks. These saddle shoes are vintage. If she fucked them up, I’ll make sure not even her lowlife brothers can protect her.
She digs in her locker—which is unfortunately in the same row, because Coach keeps lacrosse together—and I stalk over to the cabinet, pulling out a spare Polo.
“You know,” I tell her, fumbling with a clean shirt, “if you didn’t want everyone to see, then maybe you shouldn’t have been practically fucking her in public.”
“We weren’t fucking,” she growls, glaring at me. “As you, and everyone else clearly saw. I guess if I didn’t want people filming, I shouldn’t have expected as much as some simple manners from a stupid, useless cow.”
I slip my arms into the shirt. Stupid, useless…
But I pull it back off and throw it at her. “This should fit your fat tits. Take it.”
She catches it, and I yank another shirt out of the cabinet, making sure it’s a small.
She sets the shirt in her locker, checking her face in the mirror that hangs on the inside of the door. A trickle of dried blood coats the ridge of her ear, and I try not to look at her as she wipes it clean.
A tiny pang of guilt hits me, but I push it away. She made me bleed too, didn’t she? It’s not my fault she has to line metal up her ear with all her dumb piercings. She came at me first.
I lick the cut at the corner of my mouth again, glancing over and watching her throw the bloody wipe on the ground, her lips twisted in anger.
But the fury is in her eyes too, and I know she’s still upset.
I pause, confusion seeping through. I know I deserved her anger. I’d have been furious, too. And I honestly wasn’t going to post the video. That wasn’t my plan originally, but…
I grind my teeth together and close my eyes, blinking long and hard. Olivia kissed that girl everywhere. Everywhere.
I stare off into my locker, the bra like sandpaper on my skin. I peel it off, dropping it to the floor.
I mean, if I did that with my boyfriend in a public place, I’d be a slut, right? I might even get into trouble, because sluts don’t represent Marymount at lacrosse games.
Marymount girls are good girls. We’re discreet.
And now she knows.
I stand there, the air grazing my bare breasts as she digs in her locker.
She brushes down her blue, green, and black plaid skirt as chills spread across my body. She tightens her high ponytail, fluffing up the messy hair and smoothing out the loose tendrils that hang around her ears, the posts and small rings there glinting in the lights as the flesh of my nipples hardens.
I can’t look at her, but I see everything.
She stops moving and lets her head fall, both of us breathing in sync. Quiet and alone, but so crowded.
“Why do you want me to hurt you?” she asks, her voice suddenly soft.
I don’t blink.
Why?
Why?
My chin trembles. Because…at least it’s something.
At least I have that.
My brother’s picture hangs inside my locker door, and I absently rub my thumb over the faint, hidden tattoo on the inside of my middle finger. He would’ve been fourteen this month.
My insides shake, and I grab the prescription bottle, tapping out a ten-milligram blue pill. I pop it into my mouth, the bitter dust starting to dissolve on my tongue before I swallow.
I pull out a clean sports bra and pull it over my head, followed by the shirt as she takes off her dirty one. And I can’t help but look.
The contours of her stomach are tight and smooth, and I slide my eyes down her legs, the curves on the backs of her thighs mesmerizing.
But then she holds her hand out to me, and I look up, seeing a package of wet wipes. I stare.