I searched for the video of Ezra collaring me at the Rain Dance so I could see just how bad it was, because it seems I’ve repressed a lot of what happened that night. But the sites that had the keywords I was searching for either led to paid news blogs that cut me off before I got to the video, or apps forcing me to log in to ‘see more.’
Turns out you need an email address to log in anywhere. I had a Gmail account a while ago, but I lost the password. When I tried signing up with my phone number, the verification kept failing.
Part of me is desperate to see the video. To see how pathetic I looked with that collar around my neck. How many people were laughing at me.
The other part knows it’ll send me spiraling.
“Professor Rooke cares,” Melissa says, yanking me out of my bitter thoughts. “He rushed you out of there like you were dying.”
Cares? Nah, he just couldn’t wait to get me into his bed.
“Men are mentally unstable, narcissistic assholes. Can’t live with ‘em, will get thrown in jail if I kill ‘em.”
A snippet of last night’s nightmare drifts up in my mind like a body floating in a swamp. My nausea wells up, but I tamp it down with an extra-hard swallow.
“Much as I’d love to hang around when you’re in such a fantastic mood, I have classes to attend. And, apparently, notes to take,” she adds dryly.
Not like she wasn’t going to take notes anyway. All I’m asking is for her to share them with me.
She sets the prescription bottle down on my nightstand. “Here. For the cramps.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
She crosses her arms, leaning back on one leg to study me. Her fluffy, pastel green skirt and jacket silently taunt the rumpled, stretched-out tee I slept in.
“You make it sound like a crime.”
I sigh. “No, but usually people only do nice things because they want something, and I have no idea what you couldpossiblywant from me.”
“Oh, right.” Melissa spares me a tight smile. “Let me guess…your parents lectured you non-stop on what corrupt, narcissistic pedos all the rich people are, right?”
“Parents? Lecture me? Please.” I grimace as I’m wracked with another sharp cramp. “My mom died before I was five. Mydad would have sold me to the lowest bidder if he’d been clever enough to figure out the whole human trafficking thing.”
“Yeah, well, my family isn’t all unicorns and rainbows, either. My parents fight all the time because my mother makes so much more money than my dad. Like it’s her fault she’s such a good sales rep?”
“Seriously?” My voice is deadpan.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t complain.” Melissa purses her mouth. “I’m sorry your childhood was so rough. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like. But I’m here to talk about it, if you want.”
I squint at her through slitted eyes. “Why?”
She flashes me a micro-frown. “What do you mean, why?”
“Like…why do you care, Melissa?” I wave a hand around our room. “Your old roomie got tossed, I get thrown in here instead, and all of a sudden you’re my best friend. You got a secret trailer trash fetish I should know about?”
…you really are trailer trash…no wonder you’re still a virgin…
My memory hates me.
Ha. Joke’s on Bastian. I’m not a virgin anymore, am I? Guess Professor Rooke’s the one with the fetish.
Maybe it’s just the light in here, but Melissa looks a touch paler than before. Could be anger. Could be guilt. Impossible to know unless you’re schooled in reading micro expressions.
“I didn’t like her anyway,” she says, waving a hand toward my bed like she’s granting me a wish.
Just let the other fucking shoe drop already, please. Make. It. Stop.
“She was totally OCD. Her bedtime routine lastedtwohours.” Melissa wrinkles her nose. “And…she was…into girls.”
