But, if he is, he doesn’t show it. He’s still staring at me, his mouth hanging open.
I cup myself, covering them, snatch my top off the deck. Then I scramble to my feet, elbowing Blair as hard as can when I pass her on the way back to my car.
“Fucking bitch,” I hiss at her.
“Oh, comeon, Nellie! I was just messing around!” she squeaks after me, no sincerity in her voice.
“Nice rack, though!” I hear Tommy say, which actually makes me grin.
“More like too good to be true!” Blair shouts. “Her daddy bought her those titties. It’s why she has that scar. From the surgery. Isn’t that right, Nellie Jo?”
I freeze, spin around. “You’re such a fuckingliar, Blair!”
But I know nothing I can say will make anyone believe me. When my tits came in, they were the one perfect thing about me. So perfect that Blair had to concoct a story about them. Whisper to everyone that I’d had a boob job, that the scar I got from hunting with Dad was proof of it. I was holstering a shotgun when it kicked me hard in the chest, the scope cutting into my skin.
“You wish, Nellie Jo! Just like your nose, they’re fake.”
Wicked bitch. And now she’s using my middle name, which she hasn’t in years. Just to fuck with me. Try and push me over the edge. I’m so filled with rage right now, I’ve never wanted to seriously kick someone in the face as much as I’d like to kick her.
Everyone is quiet, waiting for me to explode. But I don’t have a good comeback because my breastsareso perfect that they do look fucking fake.
My face burning, I turn around and keep heading to the car.
My arms are still across my chest when I reach the door and lean down, trying to pry it open with my fingers while still covering myself.
“Need a hand?”
I can’t breathe. It’s Luke.
“Uh, kind of?”
He pops open the door, and I hop in the driver’s seat. He looks the other way while I get my top back on.
“You don’t have to leave, just because—”
“Just because the whole world just saw my tits?”
“Hey, it’s not that big a deal. C’mon, don’t let her get you riled. She just had too much to drink.”
I hate that he’s defending her. But I love that he chased after me.
“Plus,” he says, tossing back his wet hair, which sticks again to his tanned shoulders, “they look pretty real to me.” He winks at me.
I gulp.
“Tell ya what, wanna get high?”
Minutes later we’re sitting in his Camaro, same as the other night, the leather seats cracked and baking the backs of my thighs.
He fishes out a joint from the console, fires it up, sucks in a drag, and passes it over to me.
I inhale as much as I’m able, then go into a coughing fit. But after that, my mind is numb. I loll my head over on the back of the headrest so I’m looking at him. “Why are you nice to me?”
He laughs. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Everybody else hates me—”
“Yeah, yeah, we’ve been over that, remember?”
