He chuckles as he takes another hit. “Revenge sex with three sociopaths. Sounds hot.”
I giggle, a little giddy from the THC.
“Just don’t get pregnant,” he adds.
I grimace, shaking my head. “Definitely not. I’ve got the implant.” I tap the inside of my bicep in demonstration. “A birthday gift from my mom when I turned sixteen.”
“Weird,” he snorts.
“Tell me about it,” I mutter.
Bryce sighs, tossing the roach of the joint onto the roof and grinding it out with his shoe. “Can’t believe my little Aves is all grown up,” he says with a smile, then squints at me. “Even if you still look like a Girl Scout.”
“Hey,” I protest. “Girl Scouts can be vicious, have you seen them during cookie season?”
We both laugh, and for a second, all the pressure and anxiety and suffocating self-doubt evaporates. Sitting here, I don’t have to be the new girl, or the Dollhouse escapee, or even the girl the Kings want to ruin. I can just be Ava, a college student sitting on a rooftop with her best friend, plotting crimes against humanity and giggling about it.
“So,” Bryce says slyly, lowering his gaze. “Are you gonna tell me about last night, or what?”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, now you want details?”
He leans back on his palms. “I always wanted the details, I just needed to make sure you were okay first.” He smirks, inclining his chin. “Lay it on me, babe.”
I smirk back at him, then start talking. Not the sanitized version, or the one I’d spin for a therapist, but the real, messy, mind-blowingly hot truth. He listens, making faces and asking rude questions, occasionally howling with laughter.
We stay up there for a while, just trading stories and sharing secrets and plotting out the next phase of the revolution. It’s the best I’ve felt in weeks. And when we finally climb down, the world doesn’t look any different, but my view of it does.
I know what I want– revenge against the Kings, freedom from this godforsaken place– and for once, it actually feels like I might have a shot at getting it.
CHAPTER 22
RAF
The buzzingof the tattoo gun drowns out everything else– Ford’s mindless humming, the distant echo of sports highlights Wes left on the living room TV, even the steady thud of my own pulse in my ears. It’s oddly calming. I’m straddling a kitchen chair backwards, bare from the waist up, arms braced across the backrest as Ford leans over my left shoulder and shades in the crown on the skull he’s been working for two weeks straight. The burn of the needle is the only thing keeping me in my body; everything else is just white noise and static.
“Quit twitching,” Ford grumbles, the needle biting into my skin. “You’re gonna make me fuck up the shading.”
“Don’t fuck it up, then,” I snap, not moving an inch.
He snorts, wiping a rag over my skin to clear the smear of blood and ink before getting back to it. The first session was pure pain, but I need the hurt. I crave it. Every time he hits a nerve, I feel my teeth clench, my hands tightening around the wooden slats of the chair. I don’t let it show, obviously.
It’s been three days since the boathouse party, and I haven’t been able to think about anything but the way Ava sounded when I finally ripped into her. She’s everywhere and nowhere, like a ghost haunting the periphery of my vision. Even now, I cansmell her– cherry vodka and vanilla skin– and it pisses me off how bad I want her again.
I close my eyes, counting Ford’s breaths, the dull ache blooming beneath my shoulder blade. It’s almost enough to drown out the fact that she’s in every goddamn thought I have.
Almost.
The apartment door swings open, letting in a slice of cold air from the hall, followed by the click of boots on hardwood. I don’t look, but I know it’s her. I know it by the way Ford’s hands go still for a second, then double down on the next pass with the gun, like he’s showing off. Rather than making some dumb joke about her timing, Ford just keeps working, pretending not to notice as Ava walks in. Her backpack’s slung over one shoulder, hair twisted up in that messy bun she wears when she doesn’t give a shit.
She doesn’t say hi. Just sets her bag down, shrugs out of her jacket, and moves to the fridge, like it’s normal to walk in on your stepbrother half-naked, getting inked by a guy who forcibly tattooed your ass.
Ford’s the first to acknowledge her, but only because the silence gets awkward after a minute. “Where you been, princess?” he asks, not looking up from my skin. “Thought you’d be home hours ago.”
“Library,” she replies flatly, grabbing a can of seltzer from the fridge and cracking it open. “Finally caught up on that week of class I missed.” She takes a long pull, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, glancing over at us. “Where’s Wes?”
“Gym,” I grunt.
She nods, moving closer, her gaze going straight to my shoulder. “That’s new,” she says, a little softer, like she’s surprised I let anyone close enough to touch me. “What’s it for?”
