awards case isn’t that interesting; debate team photos, reading bowl winners, mathletes. Nerds, nerds, and more nerds. I unthinkingly pass the cheerleaders’ showcase before hastily backing it on up.
One of the worst parts about the military academy was how much of a dick-fest it was. It was a sad state of affairs, three hundred some-odd teenage guys trying desperately to find ways around the academy’s internet filter, just to get a taste of something even vaguely resembling porn. I’m not going to say I’ve jacked it to YouTube bikini try-on videos, but I won’t say I haven’t, either.
But these.
Fuck me, these are the real deal. I take in a few of the current classmates I’m looking forward to reacquainting myself with. Midriff. Cleavage. Legs. Shit, I’d almost forgotten how awesome a girl’s thighs were. I want to drown myself in as much pussy as possible, but I won’t front. I could legit fuck a girl’s thighs right now and it might be the best sex I’ve ever had. That’s how horrifically deprived I’ve been.
My eyes land on a familiar face. Afton Cross. I press my forehead against the glass as though that will get me a better look. Yes, I’ll take one of these, to go. Huge rack, tiny little waist, long, tanned legs, and those thighs. Those are thighs I can imagine wrapped around my hips.
I shove a hand into my pocket to discreetly adjust a growing situation.
I take a furtive look around the hallway. Preston is nowhere close to resembling the ridiculous police state from whence I sprang, but you never know. Cameras are everywhere these days. Luckily, I don’t see any, so I reach into my back pocket and retrieve the pin from my wallet. Crouching down, it takes almost no time at all to pick the lock. The photo is easy to remove from the frame and folds nicely, fitting right into the inside pocket of my jacket.
Mine now.
Setting everything to rights, I turn and head back toward the main door, aware that it’s almost time to get to the headmaster’s office. I’m halfway there when I stop abruptly, gaze caught on another photo. It’s framed in a dark mahogany, sitting dead center in the case. A picture of a banquet. The engraved lettering at the bottom lauds student-athlete leaders in a rigid serif. In the photo, Emory is holding a plaque, posing happily with his parents, but that’s not what makes my blood run cold.
It’s the other person in the photo. Her hair is long and blonde, shiny. She’s wearing a lazy grin and her eyes—eyes that I once thought of as a vast ocean of crystal blue—are unfocused and dull. Her hands are clasped behind her back, but her shoulders are sort of slumped, like maybe it’s not the first photo that’s been taken that night. I search her image carefully, for long moments, eventually hit with the realization of what I’m looking for.
Visible damage. Any sign of injury. Obvious scars.
I can’t find any.
Maybe I hadn’t completely broken Vandy Hall in the accident that night.
That’s the only thing I’m thankful for.
It’s a frail consolation. Even if she isn’t horribly disfigured, it doesn’t mean anything. Not really. I’d still hurt her. I know that. It’s the shittiest, most unforgivable thing I’ve ever done. I’ve taken a lot of things in my life, but none more valuable than what I stole from her. I hurt myself, the stolen Porsche, our families, my friends...
But most of all, I’d hurt Vandy.
I’ll never forget the way she looked on that gurney, bloody and frightened, as they loaded her into another ambulance. Later, at the hospital, they wouldn’t let me see her. I don’t even remember much from that night—all the sharp details lost in the haze of shock and desperation—but I remember running through the triage, so out of my mind from the adrenaline that my own injuries barely registered. I remember fighting, even though my wrist was fractured. I remember the look on her face when I finally found her, all strapped down, tubes and wires everywhere, the way her eyes were wide and wet and full of fear. I remember feeling like I could take every one of them down if it meant making that wild terror in her eyes go away—if it meant protecting her. Pretty ironic, seeing as how I was the reason she was there to begin with.