Page 212 of Mad Girl

“Definitely not a prude,” you said, confidently enough that my stomach flipped. “I just don’t see the point of sneaking a peek into a package I haven’t actually received yet. I prefer to be surprised”—you passed your thumb seductively over your bottom lip—“when I go to rip into it.”

The husky drawl of your voice—your heated gaze, holding mine captive—caused a dangerous thrill to shoot through my body. And I didn’t like that. Because I’d forgotten myself alright, when the whole point of this hugely inappropriate conversation was for me to mess with you, not the other way around.

It took me a few seconds to respond. “Interesting,” I said, hearing a slight tremor in my voice. “I, on the other hand, thoroughly enjoy a good dick pic.”

Just like that, your composure cracked, too. “Who the fuck sent you dick pics last year? And what did they ask for in return?”

“Chill, Casey. You think any of those guys would ever trust me with a picture of their dick?”

You squeezed your hand into a fist. “Just a moment ago, you wanted me to believe that quite a few of them trusted you enough to stick their most prized possession into a place as potentially hazardous as your mouth.”

I badly wanted to comment here—to ask how much you prized your possession—but forced myself to move on. “Touché,” I said. “But Tinsley’s the one who always got the dick pics, not me.”

“Right. Well. I feel I’ve heard the word dick leave your mouth quite enough for one day. Now, please, hand over my phone.”

“Fascinating. All the trouble I went through to get you kicked out by throwing that party over here, when I probably could’ve gotten you to leave on your own by just following you around and talking about dicks.”

“Elliot, for Christ’s sake. You’ve made your point. I said something you didn’t like, and now I’ve been rewarded with a thoroughly”—eyes squeezed shut—“shocking conversation I’m unlikely to ever forget. I’m not obligated to share every last detail of my life with you.”

“Are you kidding? It wasn’t what you said—it was that you singled me out as the one person you refuse to talk to about that part of yourself, which fucking hurt my feelings. So, here, take your fucking phone back.” I slammed the phone against your chest. “And fuck you.”

I slid over on the sofa, fighting back tears.

You reached for me, but I slapped your hand away.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

“Get away from me. It’s impossible to fully know you, and I’m done trying.”

You slid over until your leg touched mine. “Don’t say that. You know me better than anyone. You’re the only person—apart from Nic—who knows my secret. You’re the only person I can talk to about it.”

“Yeah, only because I snuck into my dad’s office and found it for myself. You never would’ve volunteered that information on your own. Just like you won’t tell me the truth about that tattoo on your hand. Or what you did to make your adoptive dad dislike you so much. I’ve shared some really mortifying stuff with you, and you can’t even tell me who you’re attracted to. The things you don’t share with me? They far outweigh the things you do. It’s the same stuff my dad does—deflect, avoid, hide—and I’m sick of it.”

I fought the lump in my throat, my cheeks prickling with heat beneath your steady gaze. I hated how exposed I felt.

“Charlotte,” you said.

“What?”

“That’s what the C on my hand stands for. Charlotte. My mum. She had this fancy way of signing the C in her name, so I had it tattooed on my hand, where I’d always see it and be reminded of her. But when people ask, it’s easier to tell them the C’s for my name rather than hers. Otherwise, they’ll be tempted to ask more questions, and I don’t especially want to talk about my dead mum with strangers.”

“But I’m not a stranger, Casey. We’ve lived together for two years, and you’re just now telling me.”

“I know.” You glanced down at the tattoo, swallowing hard. “It’s just really painful for me to talk about her. So I avoid talking about her, even though I shouldn’t. But I’m supposed to be working on that. I’m supposed to be telling you things.”

“You’re supposed to?”

“Yes. My therapist says I need to be more open with you.”

I straightened, my heart quickening despite the circumstances. “You talk to your therapist about me?”

“Yes,” you admitted. “Probably too much.”

This both moved and delighted me. “Well, I feel validated to know your therapist and I agree on something.” I plucked your hand off your knee, brought it over to mine, and studied the tattoo with fresh eyes. “Thanks for finally telling me the truth about this. I liked it before, but now I see it in a whole new light, and it’s beautiful.”

Our gazes locked as I stroked your tattoo with my thumb.

“Honestly?” you said. “I’ve been with quite a few guys. And yes, actually, I have blown someone in a utility closet.” You winced. “Not one of my finer moments.”