I glance back toward the couch—bad idea. The girl’s laughing into Miles’s neck, and he’s smirking, eyes half-lidded, like none of this chaos touches him. When he cups her neck and then proceeds to kiss her, my stomach twists. I look away so fast I almost spill my drink. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.
I can feel the burn behind my eyes which has nothing to do with the tequila in my bloodstream.
Bella’s arm snakes around my shoulder, pulling me closer. “Don’t chicken out now, Ashford. You said you wanted the full experience!” Her voice is slurred, sweet, like honey hiding the sting. She smells like sugar and mischief.
Behind her, Jamie’s leaning against the wall, beer bottle dangling between two fingers. His blond hair catches the light, and when he sees me, he lifts his drink in a small salute, grin crooked. I manage a weak smile back. He’s the only familiar face here. The only one who feels remotely safe.
I try to focus on him instead of the couple behind me. But it’s useless. I can still feel Miles’s presence like static, a shadow I can’t shake.
Bella claps her hands again, stumbling slightly. “Alright, pledges!” she sings. “Say your names and strip!”
The music dips, and laughter ripples through the crowd. A few girls shout their names, voices shrill with excitement. Someone whistles. The freckled girl stands up from Miles’s lap,straightening her skirt and tugging at her shirt hem like she’s prepping for a runway. My throat tightens.
“Leslie Bennett!” she yells, spinning as the crowd cheers. Her shirt’s already halfway up, revealing a red bra that could blind someone. She smiles at Miles before peeling it the rest of the way off.
I stare down at my hands, my nails digging into the cup. This is insane. Completely insane. I’m not doing this. No fucking way.
Marie turns toward me, smirking. “What about you, sweetheart? You gonna run or just stand there?”
My mouth opens, closes. “I—”
But then I feel it. That familiar burn of being watched. I don’t even have to look to know where it’s coming from. I can feel his gaze like a physical touch—Miles, silent, unreadable, eyes pinned on me.
I finally force myself to glance over my shoulder. He’s still slouched on the couch, hood up, but his face is shadowed. The cut on his lip glints faintly under the light when he takes another sip of beer. Leslie’s perched on the armrest now, laughing with someone else, but his attention’s not on her. It’s on me.
For a second, the noise fades. The laughter, the music, the chanting—it all dissolves into a muffled hum. All I can hear is my heartbeat, loud and furious in my ears.
Then Bella’s voice cuts through it. “Come on, Chloe! You can’t back out now!”
I blink, the moment breaking like glass. Everyone’s looking at me. Waiting. My face burns. My fingers twitch around the hem of my T-shirt.
This is what I came for, right? To be normal. To belong. To stop thinking. To stop replaying the night I got kidnapped. To forget about losing my father to a prison sentence, my mom who abandoned me, and all the stares from my supposed friends in high school This is my chance.
Maybe if I do this—this ridiculous, humiliating thing—it’ll all stop hurting for a little while.
“Chloe Ashford!” I shout before I can second-guess it, the words trembling but loud enough to earn a cheer.
Bella whoops, nearly spilling her beer as she claps. “That’s my girl!”
The other pledges are laughing, unzipping, pulling off layers, the music pounding through the floorboards. I can’t stop glancing over my shoulder, though. Miles hasn’t moved. He just stares, that same unreadable expression on his face, something dark flickering behind his eyes.
He shifts, rolling his neck, and when he adjusts his hoodie, I catch the faintest smirk. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Like he’s daring me.
It pisses me off more than it should.
So I lift my chin, grip the hem of my shirt, and tug it over my head. The air bites at my skin, cool against the heat rising under it. Cheers erupt. Someone hands me another shot. I down it, feeling it burn all the way down, and let out a laugh that doesn’t sound like me at all.
If he wants to watch, let him.
12
Jamie
Whitelace.Matching.Nothingflashy, but God, the way it fits her, the way she moves––it knocks the air clean out of me. She’s soft in all the right places, all that quiet confidence she doesn’t even realize she’s got. I can’t look away.
Yeah, I’m fucked.
She’s laughing now, hair wild, cheeks flushed, running with the rest of them out the door and into the night. The porch light catches on her skin as she takes off down the lawn, and for a second I think I might follow just to keep her in sight.
