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“Yes! Whatever you want to do. Let me take you somewhere—you want to go somewhere?”
“I just want to do something normal…somewhere no one knows who I am.”
“We can do that,” he says as he finishes carving the letter ‘D’ into the wood.
A + D
“Okay…maybe.”
“Thank you,” hesays.
He smiles, then leans in and kisses me. It’s been days since I’ve felt his mouth on me, and I missed it.
I think he did, too.
He moves on top of me, sliding a hand under my ass before settling between my legs. He grinds against me, slowly and deliberately, torturously. I lift my hips into him, desperate for more friction. I try to decide if I’d fuck him right here. It’s empty enough that every sound would carry, and I’m sure there will be a class in here next period. Still, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t tell him no if that’s what he wants. And I’m pretty sure it’s what he wants.
He runs a hand up my shirt, slips it inside my bra, cupping my breast, and then he freezes.
He removes his hand from my shirt, and I see fresh blood on his palm.
“Ally, are you bleeding?” he asks.
“What? No.”
But I sit up and lift my bandaged arm and see that both the sleeve and the side of my shirt are wet.
“Maybe,” I say, panicked.
“Shit. Okay, come here,” he says.
He takes my hand and pulls me into the hallway, then the nearest bathroom, after ensuring no one is inside.
“Let me see it,” he says.
I sigh, pull the shirt over my head, and wince when he removes the tape from the cuts on my underarm.
“Jesus, Ally,” he says. “This is bad. This looksreallybad. I think the cuts are infected. There’s bruising all around them—and a couple on your back, too. Did you do this?”
I nod my head. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be sor—” he sighs, running his hands through his hair and shaking his head. “I have a first aid kit in the car. I’ll go get it.”
“Um, I have a hoodie in my locker.”
“I’ll get that, too,” he says. “You need to wash those, Ally.”
He leaves the bathroom, and I turn on the water, lifting my arm so that I can see exactly what I did to the underside in the mirror.
The sight surprises even me.
It’s much worse than I’ve ever done to my legs. The skin is greenish around each of the deep, angry red cuts. I pump some soap into my hand and maneuver my body so that I can get my upper arm under the water. It’s tender to the touch when I try to clean it.
I pat it dry with a towel and hold it up to the mirror again, for some reason expecting it to look better just because it’s clean now.
It doesn’t.
Devon doesn’t say anything when he returns with the first aid kit. He sets it down on the sink, then sprays my arm with some kind of antiseptic before wrapping it with gauze.
