Anger grips me. Who hurt her?
I don’t know.
Maybe I don’t want to know.
Dropping the photos, I open the next drawer to spot a thick, black leather journal sitting there, just begging to be picked up. I do so without hesitation, holding it up to the light beaming into the window. There’s a white sticker on the front cover, and someone wrote on it—I assume it was Summer.
Things I meant to say…
Jack fucking pot.
I open the journal, and all I see is words. So many words. I flip through the pages, realizing quickly that it’s a journal, filled with her thoughts and dreams. Lists. Little bits of paper, a photograph here and there. Various dates. It started…over three years ago.
This is Summer’s journal. A diary of her personal life, all in one little convenient book.
I snap it shut, and slowly close the desk drawer.
With quiet efficiency, I finish getting dressed. Don’t bother putting on my uniform shirt. I leave it on her floor, since I’m taking her hoodie.
And her journal.
I’ve got what I need. This journal is full of information I’m sure, and all of it I can use against her. Tomorrow she’ll try and pretend nothing happened between us. She’ll act like I never touched her and made her burn. She’ll pretend she never had my cock in her mouth, or my fingers inside her tight pussy. As if she never came against my mouth, her clit pulsating beneath my tongue.
She’ll continue on as if what happened between us doesn’t exist, but fuck that. I’m going to tell her I have something that belongs to her, and the only way her secrets are safe is if she continues to meet with me until I’m through with her.
Because that will happen—I guarantee it. I’ll get bored. I’ll toss her aside and move on, and maybe even give the journal back to her. Eventually.
Or maybe not.
I go to her bed and watch her sleep, ignoring the strange feeling stirring in my chest. As if my heart is being strangled. She means nothing to me. She is nothing to me. Except for a good lay. And I haven’t even really fucked her yet.
My thoughts wander, and I think of Elliot and his townie friend who tried to beat the shit out of me. I fought as hard as I could, defending myself pretty decently, considering it was two against one. This only started because of Summer. Right after school, Elliot taunted me. Said he was going to fuck her first. Stupid fucker.
The hell he was. That piece of shit will be dead before he lays another hand on her.
She’s mine.
I clutch the journal in my hand and bend over her, dropping a soft kiss on her forehead, inhaling her intoxicating scent. She stirs in her sleep, murmuring nonsense, rolling over on her side, the comforter slipping, her bare back to me.
The temptation to climb back into bed and have my way with her is strong, but I tell myself to stop. I need to get the fuck out of here. I’ve stayed too long as it is.
As silent as I can be, I exit her room. I already texted Sylvie about the cameras, and she said she’d take care of it. No one will know I was in Savage’s room.
Except for her.
Twelve
Summer
I wake up slowly, to the sound of chirping birds just outside my window, as if I’m living in a Disney movie, which I know is completely untrue.
More like I’m living inside a nightmare, one I can never seem to escape.
The curtains are still open and sunlight floods the room with way too much light. I crack open my eyelids and immediately close them, slinging my arm across my face, desperate to avoid the overly bright room.
It’s too much. My eyes hurt. My head pounds. My entire body aches. I feel hungover, and I didn’t even drink last night. Shifting beneath the covers, I realize I’m still naked, and my thighs are sore.
The memories come back, one after another. Last night. The storm. Elliot threatening me. Tackling me. Whit unexpectedly coming to my rescue. Until he was beaten. Bloody. Broken. Bringing him back to my room. Stripping naked for him. Watching as he stripped for me. Hating him. Wanting him. Waking up to him touching me. We took it further. I always knew we would. It was inevitable. It was also amazing.
Of course it was.
It feels like what happened between us was a dream. As if it never happened at all. He’s not in my room. I don’t know when he left, but he’s gone. If he were still here, I would sense his presence. Feel him in the bed with me.
I slowly remove my arm from my eyes and open them, staring at the ceiling, thinking of last night. His head between my legs, his mouth on my pussy, licking and searching, leaving no part of me untouched.
My core clenches just thinking about it.
What Whit and I share isn’t normal. I don’t know how to define it. I also didn’t know you could feel so much, being with someone you hate. Become aroused by someone who says such horrible things. It’s as if he has complete control over my body, how it responds, and I’m not mad about it.
Not at all.
It’s as if I crave him.
As my mind runs over what we said to each other, what we did, I start to feel sick. Maybe I should be ashamed of myself. I let him use me. He was essentially fucking my mouth, like some sort of porn clip come to life, and while I didn’t mind at the time, now I feel nothing but shame.
We shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have let him go down on me either. But oh, that orgasm had been amazing. I swear I lost all function of my body for a moment. I was flying. In the air. Soaring above. Just before I came crashing down.
Reaching between my legs, I touch myself there. I’m sticky. Wet. I tentatively rub my clit. It’s swollen. Still sensitive from last night.
I don’t stop touching myself, reliving the dirtiest moments Whit and I shared. It’s like I can’t. I remember at one point last night, when I opened my eyes to find Whit watching me, his mouth on the most intimate place of my body. I couldn’t look away and he knew it. He stuck his tongue out, the gesture almost obscene as he thoroughly licked me.
A shudder moves through me and I squeeze my eyes shut, Whit’s face haunting me. I’m coming. Oh God, I’m coming so hard. Not as hard as last night but the tremors move through my body and I stifle the moan that wants to escape.
I just think about him and I can make myself come.
What have I done?
Once I’ve composed myself, I climb out of bed, my steps tentative, the floor cold beneath my bare feet, despite the shining sun. I see the crumpled white shirt on the floor and I pick it up, realizing it’s Whit’s.
I slip it on over my naked body, doing a couple buttons. It still smells like him and I breathe deep, wishing he were still here.
But what would I do if he was? How would I act around him?
The bigger question: how would he act around me?
There’s what I want to happen, and what will most likely happen. Knowing Whit, he’ll probably make a mockery of the entire evening. To him, it was just a one-off. It means nothing. I’m nothing, especially in his eyes. He’d make me feel like absolute shit, break me apart with his words and his sneers and his angry glares, and then leave me alone to pick up the pieces.
My skin suddenly crawling, I undo the buttons as quickly as I can, shucking the shirt off my body and flinging it onto the floor. I grab my robe hanging off the hook on the back of my door and slip it on, tying it around myself, and go to my desk.