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Aracely pins me with fire in her eyes, and I know that nothing makes her crazier than Army with another woman. Because he’s what she really wants. Even though he has no interest in her.
She rises, glaring at me. “She won’t always have you around, you know?”
And she walks off, the threat hanging in the air.
I peer down at Clay, her arm still holding her shirt to her body, no bra underneath the camisole. I untie the wet shirt around my waist, throwing it around her.
“Are you hurt?” I ask.
She shakes her head as she lets her tank top fall away and slips her arms into my shirt. She stares off, not focusing on anything. Does she even realize Aracely was about to chop off her hair?
“I’m not gay,” she says quietly, and I have to strain to hear her over the rain. “I’m just in love with you.”
My mouth goes dry. What?
Tears pool in her eyes. “I can’t apologize for everything I do to hurt you, Liv.” She finally looks up, blinking against the rain. “Because I can’t promise I’ll stop.”
I watch her.
“But I promise,” she goes on, “I hurt every time you do.”
My chin trembles.
My instinct is to push back. What does that mean? You think that justifies the last three-and-a-half years?
But the pain in her eyes splits my heart down the middle, and in that moment, I don’t care what else she has planned for me, because I can push back too. Just don’t stop.
Sirens pierce the air, and we both twist our heads, seeing blue and red lights flash through the rain, making their way down the street. Some of the girls scatter, running to cars, while others race in between buildings, disappearing.
I shoot to my feet, pulling Clay to hers.
“My brothers,” I gasp.
They scatter, Dallas racing away in the truck, and I can’t tell if he has everyone with him, but the streets empty quickly, and I am not going to be taken in for this.
I grip Clay’s hand. “Come on.”
I run, pulling her behind me, but it only takes a moment for her legs to catch up, and before I know it, we’re around the corner. I slam into the boutique door, the neon sign reading Lavinia’s dark. I look around, noticing the streetlights off, as well. The power is out.
Pulling my keys from the breast pocket on Clay’s shirt—my shirt—I open the shop door, and wait for Clay to dip in before I follow her.
Lightning flashes, thunder roars, and my heart almost stops, the mannequins inside looking like people. I pull the door closed, locking it from the inside.
I move to the window and peer through the blinds. “See anything?” I call.
I should be with my brothers, but everything happened so fast. The last thing Dartmouth needs to hear is that I was arrested for brawling.
But Clay doesn’t answer me.
Stepping away from the window, I walk into the main room, drapes hanging to my left and sectioning off three dressing rooms. A riser sits in the center, an armchair on each side, and mirrors spread out around the walls. Clay stands at the windows to my right, next to the tiara and jewelry displays.
But she’s not looking out the window. She’s staring at me.
“Clay?” I prompt.
Is she okay?
My flannel hangs on her, water dripping from the unbuttoned sleeves, and I see the upside-down V patch of skin, starting underneath her breasts and falling below her belly button. She didn’t have a chance to finish buttoning the shirt.
Her hair is darkened with rain, drops shimmering across her face, while her skirt sticks to her thighs.
Red and blue lights flash beyond the curtains, and I jerk my attention to the window, it only taking a moment for them to pass and fade away down the street.
Clay moves, pulling her little handbag over her head and reaching inside for her phone before she tosses the purse down.
I should check my phone for water damage. The video she took on it pops in my head, filling me with excitement. I don’t have any pictures of us together, except for team photos.
She moves closer, inching forward and dragging her finger over the glass tables along the wall. I know what she wants. Her nipples look like berries poking through my shirt, and my eyes fall to her legs again, the water bringing out the tone of her thighs and her tan. I want to lick my lips, but I don’t.
“I want you to leave me alone,” I tell her quietly.
She walks her fingers—index and middle—playfully across the table, seemingly satisfied now to have me all to herself. “You know what I want?” she questions. “I want you to stop lying to me.”
Those are my words.
She taps her phone, taking her eyes off me for only a moment before a song starts playing. “Dirty Mind” begins, and Clay walks toward me, matching her steps to the tune, almost like a dance. Like she’s hunting.
