“Maybe you don’t.”
Surprise flickers across his features, and his eyes flit between mine. His throat works up and down. When he finally speaks, the gravelly words that leave his lips take me by surprise. “You forgot to steal my drink.”
Confusion rolls through me as I notice the full glass of juice beside him. I glance from the juice to him, then back again.
I feel it. The warmth of his body touching my skin. Heating my neck. Making my palms clammy. I’m standing between his casually spread legs, between his hands resting against his jeans. The slightest movement, and his thumb will graze the outside of my thigh. His eyelids lower lazily, and his gaze travels down my face, my throat, the curve of my breasts. Fire plunges down my body, settling between my thighs.
The feeling’s too heavy.
Too easy.
Too consuming.
The foundation bottle slips from my grip.
Clank.
“What—Eva. My goodness, will you be more careful? Do you think Giorgio Armani grows on trees?”
With shaky fingers, I pick it up, set it on the counter, and jerk my backpack off the floor. “All set,” I announce, avoiding eye contact.
Bridget’s gaze narrows. “Remind me to never trust you with luxury products aga—” She pauses, presses a button on her earpiece. “Hello? Yes, this is she.” She walks away, and Easton’s gaze burns my face.
Before I go up in flames, I’m out the front door. I dig my phone out of my pocket and scroll through my contacts.
“Eva!” Easton’s deep voice collides with my back, tickling my neck. “Wait.”
I cut through a neighbor’s yard and head toward the alley behind their house. It’s a longer detour to school, but I could use the extra time to get my shit together.
It’s not the first time Easton’s made me ... feel. But it’s usually in the dark. Beneath my sheets. When I’m alone and desperate for release.
I send a text before I can change my mind.
Me: You free tonight?
One second.
Two.
Three.
Elijah: Absofuckinglutely.
Eva
(Thirteen years old)
Wiping my mouth, I stand and turn around, facing the bathroom stall. The shuffle of clothing sounds behind me. Thebuzzof a zipper. Theclickof a belt. There are brown stains on the wall and numbers and corny names in black sharpie. I can barely see the color it was supposed to be beneath. I wonder how long it took to become so dirty. I wonder how long it would take to scrub clean. I wonder if that’s even possible.
“You were great, darling. Getting much better.”
I don’t respond.
“Such a good, sweet girl.”
The stains blend together, twisting and swirling, swirling and twisting, until they resemble the contents of my stomach.
Good.
