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Eloise looks away, her lips pursed. “May I please have another drink,” she mutters.
“Fuck it. Fine.”
I watch as she snatches up the bottle and pours a glass. She takes a small sip, still not meeting my eye.
“It wasn’t a punishment. I mean…” She blushes. “It didn’t feel like a punishment at the time. For the record.” Her brows knit tightly. For a moment I think she’s going to knock back her whole drink again. But she sets it down instead, her hands twisting before she looks up at me.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me about Camille?”
I stiffen. “Let’s not go there.”
There’s a determined look in her eyes as she shakes her head.
“I need to tell you something.”
“Eloise—”
“Ten years ago, she told me that you got her drunk, maybe drugged her, and…you know…”
What. The. Fuck.
When she trails off, my office goes pin-drop silent but for the angry thud of my pulse. My molars grind painfully, my skin feels raw against my clothes, and my emotions duel with each other.
“You seriously think I’m capable of that?” I hiss coldly.
Eloise swallows, and she shakes her head.
“No,,” she says quietly. “But I did hear from someone else that you left the bar with her that night.”
My memories of that night are…hazy, at best. But they involve bumping into Eloise’s crazy-ass sister at some bar in Tribeca, immediately trying to leave, and then somehow finding myself slumped in the passenger seat of her car.
I dimly remember her hand on my thigh, and me telling her to let me the fuck out of the car. I also remember blurred streetlights and shoving her hand off my leg over and over before blue and red lights filled the night, together with sirens.
Then I remember waking up to see my brother and Taylor hovering over me in a hospital room.
So to say that I feel rage at Camille’s very different account of things is a vast understatement.
“Would you care to hear the actual story about that night?”
“No need, I know now,” she says quietly. She shakes her head, looking away. “I was so, so fucking mad at you,” she whispers.
“Because you thought I fucked your sister?”
“Yes!” she blurts loudly. Her face falls as she looks away again. “Yes,” she murmurs again, quieter. “I know we were cruel to each other. But that just seemed…beyond.”
She’s right. It would have been. Even after every shot we fired at each other. Even after the “pranks” like dying a showerhead blue turned far more dangerous. Even after we came at each other with knives drawn.
Even after what I saw that night that almost destroyed me and arguably made me the cold, walled-off fucker I am today.
…Fucking her psycho sister would have been crossing a line.
My brows knit. “When did you find out I didn’t?”
Eloise looks down at her hands. “Three days ago.”
Holy fuck.
She’s spent ten goddamn years thinking… Suddenly, a thought hits me.
