Page 110 of Mad Girl

“No way,” Greer said. “Are you crying? She’s crying, Rory. Look at this—real tears.” He pressed a fingertip to the corner of my eye and laughed at me. They both did. “This isn’t like you, Bancroft. You’re tough. You’re bad. You took that hit to the face like a champ. You should be able to take this.”

But I couldn’t take it. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t take it, just that it felt like drowning.

Like clawing to reach the surface and flailing.

Like a foot on my chest, pressing me down.

Like panic.

Greer lifted my arms and pinned them above my head, and in some strange way, this felt better. Finally, I could expand my lungs enough to breathe.

I took slow, measured breaths in an effort to calm myself. But the tears kept coming.

Hot tears.

Hot and humiliating and pathetic.

“Here, Rory. Take her arms.”

Rory pinned my wrists to the floor, high above my head, while Greer lifted up, pale eyes sliding down my body in a way that sparked a different kind of churning in my stomach. A different kind of fear.

“Apologize,” he said.

“No.”

Greer pressed his lips together. Grabbed the Wednesday collar. Ripped it off my neck.

“Apologize,” he ordered, tossing it to the side.

“No.”

His eyes flicked to Rory, then back to me. He reached for his belt. “No?”

“I won’t”—I shook my head—“I won’t apologize.” But the words had come out shaky and weak, and they weren’t true. I could feel it in every squirming cell of my body. If he attempted to do that, I would say whatever the hell he wanted. I would beg for his forgiveness. I would break.

The night we met, Casey, I told you: “I’m not scared of anything.” And you were right—I didn’t know that feeling yet. I’d been safely tucked away inside that great big house of mine, where the only danger I ever faced was the danger I posed to myself. But those boys? They could hurt me in ways that would hurt me for life. A sentence far worse than being trapped in a gilded cage.

I needed to get him off me. Needed his beer breath out of my face. Needed Rory’s sweaty hands off my wrists. They were too close, the room too hot, the rage building. I swallowed back the bile rising up my throat. “My dad has a guy who takes care of problems like you.”

Greer laughed. “Your dad doesn’t have a guy.”

“He’s right outside, waiting in the car. He’s huge.”

Rory’s hands shifted on my wrists. “I’ve seen that guy—the driver? Who drops her at school sometimes? He is huge.”

Greer lifted his head. “Chill, Rory. She’s full of shit.”

“When I leave tonight, I’m telling my dad everything. He’ll send that guy after you, and you’ll regret ever touching me.”

But the horrible thing was—and I only realized it after the words had left my mouth—I couldn’t tell my dad. Not about anything I endured in Willoughby’s guest room. Telling my dad would get us both into trouble. Especially you.

“You’re not leaving this room,” Greer said, “until you apologize for getting me kicked off the tennis team. And while you’re at it, apologize for being such a cocktease and a bitch.”

“A cocktease? I never did anything to lead you on.”

Greer lowered his face to mine. “Of course you did. All the crazy talk? The bad-girl act? The playing hard to get? A girl doesn’t tell a guy he can’t handle her unless she wants to be handled.”

I made a face. “Why would I ever want to be with you? You’re creepy and weird, and I made it pretty clear when I hit you with all those tennis balls: I want to be left alone. You never stood a chance with me, you disgusting piece of shit.”