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“What are you thanking me for?” he asks, his brow cocked like he knows exactly what I was thinking. God, am I fucking blushing right now?
I really am a whore.
Maybe I always was. I got in his bed before I even saw his face, didn’t I? Maybe I was ruined from the start, and that’s why the Dolces chose me. Not because I’m pretty, but because I’m thirsty, and they could tell somehow. They knew I’d be a girl they could run trains on, a girl they could share with their friends. Maybe I liked it, even the first time, when I begged Royal to stop but he couldn’t hear me. After all, if I really wanted him to stop, why would I have fallen in love with him after that?
“For what you did in the basement that day, sophomore year,” I whisper to the lid of my cup.
The silence hangs like a dead weight between us. There’s been an unspoken agreement since that day, that we never, ever speak of it. In the worst days of bullying him, no matter what I said, I never brought that up. I never whispered a word of it to anyone, not even my sisters, who were there that day and witnessed the same thing I did.
Colt stopped them.
He probably wouldn’t have if he’d known what would happen next. That they’d climb off us and descend on him, hold his arms pinned, push him to his knees. That Duke would shove himself in Colt’s mouth, with my sister’s blood still on his cock.
After a long minute, Colt picks up his straw. “Take me home,” he says. “I’m not going to eat in a car like this, Lo.”
“Okay,” I say, watching him from the corner of my eye as I pull out of the lot. “I’m sorry I brought that up. I really am grateful, though. You didn’t have to do that for me, and I know what it cost you. Don’t think I don’t.”
“If I’d known what it would cost, I would have turned around and left you there,” he says flatly. “I’m not your hero, Gloria.”
“Right,” I say, adjusting my hands on the wheel. But he’s not right. He is a hero. Not the fantasy kind like Superman, like I wanted Rylan to be, but the closest thing real people get. He saved me that day. He saved me last year. He saved me before he even knew my name. He just doesn’t know it.
We drive in tense silence until I pull up at his house just north of town.
“You know where I live,” he muses. “Interesting.”
Now look what you did, you stupid cunt. He’s going to thinkyou’rethe stalker.
“The Dolces know where all y’all live,” I say, trying to laugh it off so he won’t know I just made a stupid blunder because I was so busy mooning over how he was my savior instead of my downfall. If only I’d kept my mouth shut today, let the Dolces cut him down like they have a thousand other times. What would it matter? He doesn’t even care. He doesn’t care about anything.
I hate him.
“Come on,” he says, swinging open his door. “We can eat on the patio.”
He slams the door and walks away, not waiting to see if I’ll follow. He knows I will, and it pisses me off. So I let myself be petty because it’s all I have left, and I make him wait. I sit there watching him walk away. God, his ass is nice.
But it’s so much more than that. It’s the way he moves, the way he carries himself so confidently, like he’s still a king instead of a pariah. It’s not cockiness, like he thinks he’s all that, the way he says he used to, when he was a rich prick like the Dolces.
This is something deeper, something the Dolces could never take away, no matter how hard they’ve tried. His whole demeanor is gilded, steeped in the natural born refinement of a boy who’s never known life without a silver spoon and a trust fund. It doesn’t matter if his former friends ostracize him and call him a loser, if his conquerors strip his title and beat him into the ground. The town could take every penny he owns, even his name, and they still couldn’t touch the aura of privilege that drips from him like molten gold. His very blood is royalty.
And I guess I’m a dumb bitch just like Dixie, because after a minute, I follow after him like a fucking dog at his command. After all, I’m not royalty. I’m a commoner obeying her king.
A big wooden patio extends off the back of the house. Colt is sitting at one of the round, wooden patio tables, rolling a joint on top of his phone. Another table sits next to his, along with a few chaise lounges at the end next to the steps where we came up. Along the edge of the patio is an outdoor bar with twinkle lights along it. In the center of the patio is an elevated firepit with gorgeous stonework, and beyond that, I can make out a large hot tub with the top closed beyond two more tables.
“This is really nice,” I say, sliding into a chair across from Colt.
He raises his brows but doesn’t look up from his task. “You sound surprised.”
“No,” I say lightly, setting down my float. “Most all my friends are rich. I’ve been to bigger places.”
He lets out a scoff of breath.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Bitch mode is kind of my default.”
“Not that,” he says, glancing up as he runs his tongue along the edge of the paper. When he finishes, I’m a little lightheaded. “Did you just call me your friend?”
“No,” I say, scowling at him. “I said my friends are rich like you. More than you.”
“I don’t know,” he says, finishing the seal and cracking a smile. “I think you did. Don’t worry. I kind of liked it.”
