But she had to remember that she wasn’t one of them. Not really. Because that actually gave her an advantage over Romeo. It did. He had nothing at stake. He was cruel for the sake of it. She was fighting for a place in a life that she knew she deserved. Having Romeo away was almost enough to help her forget about him, honestly. She had actually gotten herself a date to the party. Which was something she never managed to do when Romeo was around.
She found herself obsessing about him in strange and irritating ways, and while she would never say she had a crush on him—you could not have a crush on somebody that you hated—she couldn’t lie about the effects that he had on her body. She was eighteen now, and much more aware of why she couldn’t take her eyes off his chest. Much more aware of what he might mean by having her on her knees. Making fun of her, no doubt, and yet it was a mental image she couldn’t quite get out of her head.
He was sexy; that was the problem. And there was no denying that. Every girl thought so. It was only that he wasn’t a vile, cruel monster to every girl. Only to her.
I guess that makes you special.
Well, that was the most twisted thought she’d ever had. But it didn’t matter. She was with Damien tonight, and she fully intended to lose her virginity, which was a ridiculous albatross to be carrying around her neck out of high school and into university.
All she needed was a little bit of liquid courage to loosen up. Which, with the intensity of the party, didn’t take long. The music was loud, the mood electric, and she was pleasantly buzzed after the first hour, which Damien seemed to notice and appreciate as her nerves faded and she became looser and more affectionate.
Soon they were kissing on the couch, and if she thought of Romeo’s sensual mouth as Damien kissed his way down her collarbone, it was only because it was a habit.
After a few moments of being on display, Damien took her hand and led her up the stairs, the two of them making their way into the bedroom.
As far as exorcising demons went, she felt like she was about to do it in a big way.
Until the door to the bedroom crashed open like an entire police brigade had broken it down.
“What is going on?”
She looked up from her position on the bed to see Romeo standing there, his black hair disheveled, his face fixed into a mask of fury, his hands clenched into fists.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“The better question is what the hell are you doing?” She thought he was talking to her until he crossed the room, grabbed Damien by the neck and pulled him up off the bed. “She’s drunk,” Romeo said.
“I’m not drunk,” she slurred.
“You are,” he said. “She can’t consent to this—you get out of here before I call the police.”
“I consented,” she said.
“No,” Romeo said. “You’re being an idiot because you’re out of your head, and this party is a disaster. Clear everyone out.”
“I have permission to have this party,” she said.
“Because your mother is a fool and my father never tells you no. You need to be told no, Heather Gray. And I am telling you no now.”
“You,” she said, getting up off the bed, and trying to insert herself between Romeo and Damien, “are a nightmare. You can’t tell me that you weren’t doing far worse than this when you were in school, and now you want to come here and act like an authoritarian when you’ve never followed a rule in your entire life. You were probably snorting cocaine off of ski bunnies’ asses when you were fifteen.”
“What’s good for me is not good for you.”
“And since when do you care what’s good for me?”
“Since this asshole was about to take you when you were drunk. I care about that.”
“Romeo—”
“Get out,” he growled at Damien, who did not argue. Romeo towered over him, and was broader and far more muscular. The man had filled out in the past several years, leaving the rangy boy behind. He was still devastatingly beautiful, with cheeks that could cut glass, but he could no longer be called pretty. And she especially wouldn’t call him that now, while she was standing there with her heart pounding hard, with fury, with embarrassment. And then he walked out of the room, leaving her alone, shouting about how the party was over.
“Youcan’t!” she yelled, trailing behind him.
“I can. I came here to sleep, and I’m not doing it with this bullshit going on.”
“I’ve been planning this party,” she said. “And you don’t have the right—”
But it was too late; everyone was leaving. Everyone was listening to him like his was the only voice that mattered.
