Page 106 of Mad Girl

“I don’t owe you anything, asshole.”

Greer’s eyes flashed darkly. “I’m going to need you to apologize for that, too.”

“Not happening,” I said.

Greer stepped real close, gripped my upper arm, and whispered in my ear, “Apologize.”

I yanked my arm free. “Touch me again, and I’ll chop your hand off, motherfucker.”

Greer chuckled ominously, teeth dragging across his bottom lip. “You think you’re so bad, don’t you?”

“You have no idea what I’m capable of,” I told him. “Don’t make me have to show you.”

I snatched Tinsley away from her conversation with some boy and led her back to the living room to dance, all the while scanning the crowd for Willoughby. But the room was too dim, too smoky, filled with too many bodies, too many of them disguised by costumes. I’d been clutching my phone since we got there, so I texted him.

Within minutes, I felt Willoughby’s hand at my elbow. “You talked Casey into letting you out.”

I rolled my eyes at the comment—his outfit, too. A simple white t-shirt. Black jeans. “You don’t have a costume. What’s wrong? You’re too cool for your own party?”

“Definitely,” Willoughby said, gaze hot as it slid down my legs. “I like yours, though.” Then he noticed Tinsley, standing beside me with her arms crossed, aiming a glare at him. He heaved an exasperated sigh. “Did I do something to you?”

Tinsley cocked her head. “Whatever do you mean, Willoughby?”

“You keep giving me these nasty looks,” he said, dark eyebrows raised. “You do it at school. In the middle of class.”

As you can probably guess, I’d told Tinsley all about that party of Willoughby’s I’d attended over the summer, and she hadn’t appreciated him implying that I was cold, detached, and unknowable any more than I had.

“I just feel like you’re a nice little distraction for now,” Tinsley said, “but not a particularly worthy one, you know?”

Willoughby blinked. Almost to himself, he said, “Why do I feel so incredibly offended right now?”

I grabbed his hand. “You want to go somewhere?”

Willoughby curled his fingers around mine. “Sure.”

He led me to his bedroom on the third floor, where he unlocked his door with this old key, explaining he didn’t want people hooking up in there or going through his stuff. When he closed the door behind us, I looked around. Dark plaid wallpaper on the walls. Brown leather headboard. Navy duvet. Typical boy’s room. Very similar to Michael’s at his parents’ house, actually.

“Do you really want to talk?” Willoughby asked, leaning back against the door.

“Why?” I asked coquettishly, backing up. “Were you hoping to do more than that?”

“I’m not opposed to more,” he said. “I just want you to be real with me first.”

“Ask me anything.”

“Why won’t your dad let you leave the house without Casey?”

I nearly laughed at how predictable that question was.

“Because of the terrible thing I did to Michael Harris at my birthday party.” I avoided his gaze by peering at a picture of him and his parents on the bookcase. “Sometimes, I also get the feeling he thinks I’m a little too much like my mom.”

“What was she like?” Willoughby asked softly, walking closer. “She disappeared when you were little, right?”

“Yeah.” I stroked my finger down one of his lacrosse trophies. “She left when I was a baby. My dad says she was horrible and cruel, and we’re better off without her.”

“I don’t think you’re horrible or cruel.”

I turned my gaze in his direction. “Even though I attacked Greer with my serves and got him kicked off the tennis team?”