Page 176 of Mad Girl

I laughed—to hide the panic. “Sink his teeth into me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your dad bought you heaps of new dresses in New York. Different than the ones you usually wear. Low cut. Small straps. But you haven’t been wearing them. You’re back to the old ones. Why’s that?”

Obviously, I knew exactly why you were asking about this—you thought I might be hiding bite marks—but I wanted you to think I didn’t, so I had to play dumb. “I don’t understand. What do my dresses have to do with Michael?”

“You’ve been over to the Harrises’ quite a lot recently, and he hasn’t been by. In fact, he’s been at his parents’ nearly every day that you were there.”

“So what? You think I might’ve been…doing stuff with him? I hardly saw Michael. I stayed in Bree’s room.” The truth. I hid out with her, mainly hoping to avoid John. Besides, even after the clawing episode, Michael had still been keeping his distance from me. “You could’ve come over, too, you know. You could’ve hung out with everyone there—at your dad’s house.”

“Right,” you said. “Where I’m forced to see their family photos all over the place? Forced to see all the holidays and birthdays the other two got to share with John that I never did? No, thank you.”

I hadn’t realized the family photos in John’s study bothered you that much. “Casey,” I said softly.

But you kept talking. “I’d rather torture myself with images of what you and Michael might be doing—in that charming childhood bedroom of his—than ever put myself through that again.”

“Well, I can assure you I’ve never hooked up with Michael in that bedroom, if that’s what you’re implying.” This, too, was the truth.

“But the weather’s warmed up, and you’re back to the old dresses. The ones with high necklines that cover everything. The ones you hate.”

“So?”

“Let me see your shoulder,” you said, gaze scorching mine.

“Are you kidding? This again? What the hell would be on my shoulder? A hickey or something? What?”

“Let me see it.”

“Okay, fine.” I shoved myself up from the sofa, stormed the few feet over to yours, and dropped to my knees, terrified you’d figure out the truth about me and Michael. I had no choice but to show you. “Here’s the actual reason I’m back to the old dresses. I didn’t want to upset you, but you asked for it.”

Still propped up on one elbow, your face hovered thrillingly close to mine as I lifted the Harvard sweatshirt over my head and dropped it to the floor. Underneath the sweatshirt, I wore that flimsy camisole without a bra, and you completely forgot about my shoulder—like I knew you would—because you instantly saw them: the claw marks scattered across my chest, the worst of them scabbed over. A week later, they were still there, jagged and grotesque.

Your brow furrowed. “What’s this?”

So I told you—how my dad and Michael had actually found me.

“Why would you do this?” you asked, voice catching, your gaze frantically dashing over the marks.

“I don’t know. But this is the real reason I’m having a hard time sleeping alone right now. What if it happens again?”

“Shit,” you whispered, touching my chest. Your fingertips drifted over those ghastly scabs, feather-soft, giving me goosebumps. “This is all my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” I whispered.

“Nic should’ve kicked me out for breaking his number-one rule.”

“Casey, I’m okay.”

“You’re clearly not. I’m absolute shit for this. I deserve to be kicked out.”

“This isn’t your fault. I don’t blame you.”

That’s when you clutched my arms and slowly leaned forward, like you were about to kiss me. My heart practically stuttered out of control when you did. Not on my lips, like I wanted, but on my chest. Your lips swept across my blemished skin so lightly and tenderly that I broke out in goosebumps again.

Suddenly, I didn’t care where your lips were, just that they were touching me somewhere—and you kissed them all. Every hideous, embarrassing mark.

There we were, Casey—Garland James Bancroft as our witness—your finger hooked inside my camisole, tugging it down. Your lips, gently sweeping across my chest. Your nose, dragging across my skin, breathing me in. My heart, beating fast.

I curled my fingers against the nape of your neck, your hand straying, fingertips skating across the top of my shoulder, feeling for those tell-tale teeth indentions that had long since healed. You slipped my spaghetti strap down, twisting the strap between your fingers as you lifted your mouth to my shoulder, breathing a small sigh of relief before you kissed me there.