Page 34 of Darkest Obsession

“I know.”

“And you got away with it because…”

“Because I’m rich,” he interrupts. “I know that. Listen, I’m not the same person. I’m trying not to be.”

“Excuse me if I don’t believe that.”

I don’t mean to sound like I hate him, but Thomas’ confession makes me feel just that. Hatred.

“Violet doesn’t know. Amina doesn’t know. Please, you can’t tell them. Violet’s still hurting from my parents’ divorce.”

“What about her family? Don’t you think they’re still hurting?”

He looks away from me, his brows pinching together in anger. My palms grow cold. I shouldn’t anger him. I don’t know the guy standing in front of me. I thought we were friends, but we can’t be friends. There are two versions of Thomas — the human one and the monster. I thought maybe one would overcome the other — obviously, the human side of him. But now, all I see is a monster.

“Clover wouldn’t have any reason to blackmail you,” I tell him. “I need some space from this, but leave her alone, Thomas. I don’t want you going after her.”

“I won’t. I wouldn’t.”

His words sound hollow. I don’t believe him at all. If he can do something as horrible as what he just described, he can do worse. I don’t bother telling him my suspicions about the vandalism. I’d rather take this information to my friends — about the blackmail, not the specifics of his secret — and continue our investigation in private.

I make some excuse and Thomas struts off to crew practice. I feel safer once he disappears into the fold of his fellow rowers. Once I’m sure he’s out of sight, I send a text message to the only person I want to see right now — the person not even my friends know I’m talking to.

No one can know I’m talking to him.

Sylvia: Tonight. Boathouse. 10:30 p.m.

He responds in minutes.

I’ll be there, darling. Be safe.

He’s so damned protective. I know I shouldn’t need protecting, but given everything that’s happened, it’s nice to have.

Sylvia: I’m still not ready to go all the way.

Don’t worry. I can be patient.

Chapter Fifteen

Clover

I know I should have told my friends what happened in the studio days ago. Now, a whole week later, it feels much too late to bring it up. It’s not like I have any proof. And what exactly could I tell the dean or headmaster that wouldn’t sound like some kooky story that a weird horny teenager made up. For the past week I’ve woken up with a racing heart, just remembering his hands down my pants. I always have to change my underwear when I wake up. I hate how sticky and gross it feels and how ashamed I feel about what happens when I wake up.

I didn’t really know girls could have wet dreams until the first night it happened — the night he pinned my body against his and I thought he was going to… I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to admit it. He was definitely the same guy from the party and then he found me in the dance studio and he was just so close to… I don’t even want to think about it.

I must have had way too much to drink the night of the party, because I didn’t remember the strong scent of his body until he grabbed me again in the studio. He smells familiar.

It’s my last day to work on the Ethics project with Thomas and it’s also the stupid rowing team’s last day in our dance studio, so we can finally start to take rehearsal seriously and get ready for our show at the end of the fall trimester. I don’t want to meet up with him like this. I’ve barely slept and for some reason, I feel super self-conscious at how grungy I am during these meetings with Thomas.

He always shows up with freshly washed hair slicked back and his long sleeves rolled up so I can see the tattoos on his forearm. He even keeps his annoying comments to himself more and more these days. I still can’t forget what he did to me in the dining hall and how he helped Kit Barclay make a fool of me, but I’m not done with the rowing team yet. I still have potential plans and pranks. My parents’ channel didn’t win pranksters of the year award for nothing. I definitely have some skills from our skits that I could put to use.

I’ve never seen Thomas acting so strangely before. If I didn’t know any better, I would say that he seemed nervous. He’s Thomas Bainbridge, he’s never nervous, so that can’t be the case. I’ve never met a white boy who would step to me like that without getting all red. I’ve never met a white boy who pissed me off as much as Thomas Bainbridge.

Today, he looks like he missed his fresh shower and like he hasn’t slept. I watched him paint his nails black throughout most of ethics class out of boredom, so I doubt he absorbed much of the lecture to help us with the last day of our project. Either way, Thomas’ personal problems have nothing to do with me, so hopefully he can get it together for this project.

“So. We have to come up with our conclusion.”

“Don’t care,” he grunts.