Page 141 of Mad Girl

“So you’re saying that if you did sneak into his bed,” he replied, gaze narrowed suspiciously, “it definitely wouldn’t be to sleep.”

“Would you stop?” I reached for his mouth—for that scar I’d touched a thousand times—but he caught my wrist before my thumb could make contact. “What are you doing?”

“You don’t get to touch me like that anymore,” he said, holding my arm between us, his grip firm.

“Are you serious? Michael, come on. You can’t take that away from me.”

“I want to,” he whispered.

“Why?” I asked, tears clogging my throat. “To hurt me?”

His fingers tightened around my wrist, squeezing hard enough to sting, making my breath catch. “That’s what you like, right? For me to hurt you?”

With my free hand, I pressed my thumb to his scar, anyway, then shoved his face away. I couldn’t stand the cold, hard look in his eyes. Jealousy had turned them a scary dark blue. “Stop being an asshole.”

His throat bobbed as he said, “You love it when I hurt you.”

“Stop. You’re not that mean.”

“And you’re not that good of a liar. Not with me.”

“Okay, fine. You want to hurt me? I guess that’s a fitting punishment. Or you could do me one better and let your girlfriend hurt me instead. Let her hit me back.”

His brows lowered in confusion. “Let her hit you back?”

“Just know this: I didn’t do it because I’m jealous. I did it because she’s a horrible human being.”

I couldn’t tell him the actual reason I’d messed with Sienna without giving away your secret. So a vague explanation would have to suffice.

“Elliot,” Michael said slowly. “Where were you earlier?”

“At Tinsley’s.”

“Elliot,” he repeated. “Where were you really?”

I grabbed his hand as I hopped up from the sofa. “Let’s have tea.”

After school the next day, with my homework spread out on the kitchen island, I struggled to focus. My English assignment sat untouched while my mind raced. Had she used the contact solution yet? Had it stung? Had she taken the hint to leave you alone?

The possibilities had needled at me all day.

Then the back door flung open, revealing Michael, who was breathing hard, his gaze scorching, searing through mine.

And I knew.

Oh, God. It had happened.

“Where’s Casey?” he asked.

“Garland Room, I think.”

Quietly, Michael said, “I just got back from the emergency room with her, Elliot. What the fuck?”

The words barely registered at first.

Emergency room.

My ears rang. My skin flushed hot, then cold. This hadn’t been the plan. Not really. Not like this.