Blair, of course, has been trailing him like a puppy, and for a while, he stood there talking to her and her nauseating mother. Monica seemed to like him, tossing her phony-ass head back as she laughed, her aqua eyes on him like a target. She must know Blair has a crush—or, she might even know that they are dating,ifthat’s who he’s really seeing—because Monica Chambers is not just nice to anybody.
Fury boiled inside me watching them together, the way Blairflipped her hair over her shoulder, the way her neon cutoff tee almost crept up to her tits when she stretched her arms over her head. Her fucking laugh is so loud and hideous; she sounds like a little girl on drugs. Or a helium balloon that someone’s stretching the mouth of, letting the air out.
But I watched Luke, too, and he seemed to keep a good space between them. Like, he so could’ve put his arm around her, leaned in more,something, but he kept his hands jammed into his jeans, his arms stick straight by his side.
Andhe’s about to come meet me. Just the two of us.
He must already be headed up because I haven’t seen him in a sec; he slipped off when I was busy dumping another bottle of beer into my Solo cup.
I take a sip, start heading up the hill. I’m kind of walking zigzag. I’m notwasted, but I’m definitely buzzed and feeling so happy that I actually wave at the band Jackson hired to play for us.Sonot me.
I need to pee because I’ve had too much to drink, so I hop inside real quick, use the bathroom off the kitchen. Then I check myself in the mirror, wipe off the black liner that’s smudged underneath my eyes, fluff out my hair. I like what I see staring back at me, my cleavage all out there just for Luke.
I step into the kitchen and am about to head toward the back door when I hear something. Almost like a grunting. Coming from the garage.
I decide to go that way instead, check it out; I don’t want anyone wandering up on me and Luke. Spying on us.
I open the door and walk into the garage. It’s completely dark except for the moonlight that comes in through the windows.
The area is huge—it’s big enough to hold four cars with a divider in the middle.
The sound gets louder. Definitely grunting.
Whoever is making the noise is on the other side of the divider.
I creep over there, as soft as I can, not daring to breathe.
I reach up and grab the wall before peering around it.
Then I lurch and gasp, immediately slapping my hand to my mouth to stop the scream.
On the Ping-Pong table, Mrs. Swift is bent over, her dress riding up all the way on her hips.
And behind her is Dad.
The room spins. I stumble backward, nearly tripping in my Keds.
What in the actual fuck is happening?
Well, I know what is happening, can see it with my own two eyes: Dad is giving it to Mrs. Swift from behind, his khaki shorts hanging on his ankles, his pale bare ass shining in the moonlight as he bangs Jane’s mom.
I feel sick, like I want to retch. And angry tears are burning in my eyes. My throat burns. I’m positive that if I open my mouth, fire will come out.
Mrs. Swift’s giant tits are out of the top of her dress, flopped onto the table, and Dad keeps moving his hands over them while grunting.
I want to march over there, pull him off her, slap him, strangle her, and shout,This is my dad, you fucking whore. I want to pound his face with punches until he cries. I can’t believe he’s doing this to Mom. To me. What a nasty pig.
I want to punish Jane with this, grab her out of the crowd and drag her up here so she can see and be as horrified as I am. But I can’t. I can’t let this get out.
I can’t stand this nastiness one second longer. I’m about to leave when Mrs. Swift moans and twists her head. Her eyes are closed, but now her face is pointing in my direction.
I could kill her right now.
I need to get out of here.
I’m about to turn away when she opens her eyes, spots me.
I shoot her the dirtiest look I can manage, pray that she can’t see the tears shimmering in my eyes. I’m expecting a look of shock or horror—or even apology.
