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Avoiding their stares, my head bobs slightly in acknowledgment, knowing this is a battle I won’t win. The guys give me affectionate pats on the back and head as they move back toward their bedrooms. Kennedy lingers, watching me closely.
“You don’t have to babysit me, Kennedy. Go to bed with your guys.”
She looks at me, tilting her head to the side slightly. “Are you sure? You don’t have to be alone if you don’t want to.”
“I will be fine, thank you though.”
Picking up my wine and draining the rest of the glass, I stand and head toward the kitchen. Putting the glass in the dishwasher, I keep myself busy so Kennedy will go to bed. Wasting enough time, she finally rises to her feet, saying a soft “good night” on her way to one of the guys’ rooms.
Giving myself several more minutes of hiding in the kitchen, I peek around the corner. Soft moans come from down the hall, and a smile curls my lips up. The five of them love each other somuch it makes me a little envious at times. Not that four guys is something I would ever think of; one would suffice.
Knowing they are occupied, my thoughts drift back to the conversation Brock started after leaving the library. Shutting the lights off and making sure the front door is locked, I make my way to my room.
Between my family’s messages, the requirements for the semester, and now having to deal with Brock, my thoughts turn dark. Once inside my bedroom, I strip down to my bra and underwear, step into the adjacent bathroom, and lock the door behind me.
Searching through the drawers and pulling out my hidden stash of straight razors, I sit on the edge of the bathtub. My feet hitting the cold ceramic of the tub causes a chill through my body. Turning the blade over and over between my fingers, conversations from old therapy sessions play on a loop.
“Why do you cut yourself, Kassidy?” the doctor asks.
My mother forced me here when she found blood on the bathroom floor. Searching the bathroom and eventually my bedroom, she found bloody bandages that weren’t hidden very well. After she ranted at me and shook me until my teeth rattled, she put me in therapy as if the trailer-trash stigma in school wasn’t embarrassing enough.
“Kassidy?” she asks softly.
Shrugging my shoulders, I pick at the cuticles of my fingernails, refusing to make eye contact.
“Do you want to kill yourself? Is that your end goal?”
“No,” my words are flat, holding absolutely no emotion and refusing to elaborate.
“You know that whatever you say to me stays between us,” she says, letting that hang in the air.
“I’m not wanted. My sister takes everything from me, and my mother hates me,” I finally speak, anger lacing my words.
“I am sure that your mother doesn’t hate you,” she says disbelievingly. “If she hated you, she wouldn’t have brought you here.”
“Right,” scoffing at her. “She tells me all the time how she wishes I was never born. Did you know that me and each of my siblings have different daddies? She tells me and Kavanagh all the time about how much of a waste we are. Karoline, on the other hand, is the golden child. She spreads her legs as badly as my mother does, trying to find some rich guy to pay her way for everything. It wouldn’t be so bad if she would stick to older guys or whatever sucker comes along. She has stolen each and every guy that I have ever shown interest in.” Rage, hurt, and the feeling of being unwanted swamp my emotions. Tears track down my cheeks as the room around me fades.
The therapist says nothing, waiting for me to continue my word vomit.
Wetness falls on my legs, breaking through the old memories. I was thirteen when I cut myself for the first time. Once I got away from my toxic family, the need for self-punishment faded away. Now, Brock has brought all of that back to the surface. He doesn’t know me but made a snap judgment just because of my living situation. Why this guy has gotten under my skin so quickly is unknown. Twirling the blade between my fingers, the tears continue to track down my face.
My feet and legs start cramping, bringing the room back into focus. Taking a deep breath and placing the razor blade to the side, I turn the water on for the shower. Steeling my spine, my mind is made up. I refuse to let Brock Adams get to me. It takes a few moments for the numbness in my legs and feet to subside enough to stand, but after that, the hot spray of the water washes away any lingering doubts I have about myself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sleep evaded me last night. Thoughts of how my careless words made Kassidy cry created an ache in my chest that I can’t explain.
All day, the sycophants that call me friend—who only want the status of knowing me brings them—have been getting on my nerves. Guys give handshakes, pats on the back, and phony smiles between classes. Girls rub up against me and touch me without asking.
As the day progresses, my mood only gets worse. Knowing that I have to face Kassidy, and needing to dig deep inside myself to make the apology sincere. That is assuming that she even shows up for our tutoring session. If she quits, I have no idea what I am going to say to my father.
My last class finally ends, which means it is time for me to head to the library and face the music. Butterflies fill my belly. Stepping into the library, Simone Woodhouse, one of Danica’s minions, approaches me, wrapping me up in a hug before I can step out of her reach.
“Brock,” she moans out. Rumors have reached me about the quartet earning the nickname of Pussy Patrol. The name is fitting and causes my lips to quirk up on one side. Simonemistakes the grin for something else. “Do you want to find a quiet spot between the bookshelves?” Running her hand over my cock as she speaks, blood starts to run south unwillingly.
Stepping back, my hand grips her wrist, moving it away from my body.
“Not interested.” My words are curt, but the girl doesn’t take the hint. Stepping away from her, I walk away, trying to get to my assigned study area as she chases after me.
