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They take.
While I taste Christian’s lips, it’s like attempting to turn on a stove. The burner flickers, lacking the guts to ignite. Christian’s lips find my forehead. “This is bad, gal. Your dad made me promise—”
“Kiss me,” I beg. Make me forget the entire world like Camdyn did earlier.
Christian’s tongue plays with mine in sweet, succulent swirls. I grind myself against his hardness, begging for the twisted torture. In desperation, my teeth clamp down onto him, and the walls of my pussy constrict on themselves.
“Gal, stop.” He holds me at arm’s length. “I promised your pops I’d respect you.”
“Respect? On New Year’s Eve, he drove drunk. The only valuable item he lost was a ten-year sobriety coin. Babe, he’s tried to kill us before. When I was a toddler, he got into a car accident with Hillary.”
“Your pops is in a wheelchair; he made a mistake.”
“His mistakes are internalized in his daughters. Hillary married a man five years older than him.”
I glare through the handsome face, wishing that another face, one whose rigid muscles were dipped in chaotic ink, would materialize between my thighs.
“Your heart’s broken, Lolo. You don’t have any idea how bad I want you, gal. Not right now, though.”
* * *
For the next few days, I avoid Camdyn MacKenzie and DuPont Academy. I doubt he’d hurt me. If he did, I’d deserve it for all the pain I’ve caused my Bobcat sisters. Londyn, who became my best friend on a summer track team when we were young, has yet to reach out. It figures. I obliterated that bridge.
Each morning, I leave my sister’s home at the appropriate time, only to visit Momma until late in the evening. A few nurses may have reported to Hillary in the past, although, she’s not my legal guardian. Now, though, no one bothers me or calls her.
On Thursday afternoon, I’m in the lavatory connected to my mom’s bedroom. While drying my hands, the censored light flickers off. Shit, this place is so cheap. If you stand in one spot for a couple of seconds, it turns off. The bulbs are scheduled to conserve energy. I’m about to move when I hear two male voices.
“Ain’t it weird how they lay here, like dead fish?”
A pang twists my gut.
“The last one,” guy two whistles, “the set of jugs on her.”
With my fingers curled around the damp, thin napkin, tears assault my gaze.
“Never banged a chick with dreadlocks, but she’s a looker.”
I focus on their voices. The first one’s older, voice like gravel, while the second’s sounds to be in his mid-thirties, maybe early forties. As they continue to chat, my head swims, and it’s a struggle to catch my breath. What had I told Jamie while he suffocated against the lockers on Monday? As I’m storming out of the bathroom, I collide with Doctor Eaton. His gray eyes light up as he grips my arms, righting my stance. The folder in his hand falls.
He offers an easy smile. “Hold up there, Willow.”
I freeze. Dr. Eaton appears to be in his mid- to late-thirties, although his cultured voice doesn’t contribute to the evidence. His keen gaze drops to his hands on my shoulders, and he lets me go. “Are you alright?”
Throat constricted, I mumble a quick, “Yeah.”
“I peeked inside a few minutes ago,” he mentions, gathering his files from the ground. After straightening up, Dr. Eaton inquires, “How long have you been here?”
Why, you creep? Concerned I overheard your conversation? A million ants gnaw all over me like I’m maggot food. I mumble, “Um, I just arrived.”
“Alright, hang in there, kiddo. Is your father or Hillary here as well?”
“No.” It comes out as a barely-there sound.
“In two weeks, I—” What? You’ll feel less convicted about creeping on my mom or me? My eyes lock onto his. An amicable smile forms on Eaton’s face. “Hear you will be, what the kids these days call ‘adulting,’ right?”
“Yeah.” My mouth twitches at the edges, reflecting the sick fuck’s ability to smile in my face.
“I thought so.” Dr. Eaton nods. “I’ll be making my rounds for the next thirty minutes. Have a nurse page me if your dad or sister arrive before I head out.”
The second the door kisses the frame, I hurry to Momma’s side. My light brown hand clasps her chilly pallid fingers. “The time’s come where I must protect you, Momma. God, if You’re listening . . .”
My words tumble over a crag and into a bottomless pit of jagged rocks and broken dreams. I’m a broken dam of endless tears.
