knew I took them, but I forgot they were there. My stomach flips, the shower wetting the black lace. Does she normally wear pretty things like this every day?
My knees still bent, I hold up the underwear with both hands, my head going places I don’t understand. Does she sleep in them? Does she sleep in only these? How many people have seen her in them? Has Megan Martelle?
A picture forms in my head of Liv wearing these, and I hear my voice again.
I can’t believe the state of you.
My eyes burn, thinking of all the insane shit I wrote all over her today. How I violated her.
She’s not ugly. I hated that I couldn’t find anything wrong with her, and I shouldn’t have touched her. It hurt her.
I touched her skin, and she never said it was okay. My fingertips tingle, still feeling her smooth stomach and arms.
I grind the fabric between my fingers, the tornado inside my body raging again like it did when the shame and heartache of having her naked before me raged in the theater.
She’ll hate me forever now. That’s what I want, right?
I’d gone too far. I had to.
I lie back in the tub, the spray showering down on me. Leaning my head on my hand, I fist the underwear again and again, my gaze falling into a void in my head where I only see her.
In here with me.
Quiet with me.
Close with me.
Her head between my thighs.
I moan, my head falling back as I rub my pussy and roll my clit under my fingers through her panties.
“Fuck,” I groan, the friction of her lacy fabric a little scratchy, but it feels so good.
Yes.
But then I open my eyes and stop, my body aching with need as horror sets in at what I’m doing.
A need I’ve never felt with Callum.
No. Tears well. Fuck no.
I squeeze the panties in my hand and fly to my feet, slamming my palm into the shower wall and see Alli on that slab and what the world did to her for wanting something people didn’t think she should.
I’ll fuck him. I’ll fuck him a dozen different ways, slow and fast, hard and gentle. And if that doesn’t prove anything, I’ll find someone else to give it to me.
Someone who’s good. Someone who knows what to do with me.
Someone not her.
• • •
By the next day, I’ve convinced myself, as always, that she deserved it. Olivia acted like a bitch. Saying that shit about how I could use a brother now that I was down one? What a fucking pig.
When her mom went and hung herself two months after her father’s death, have I ever brought that up? Did I ever use it against her? What I do to her doesn’t even come close to how nasty that comment was yesterday.
And then she had the fucking gall to cry.
Grabbing the parking ticket that I got a year ago out of the glove box, I climb out of my car, carrying my purse, and slide the ticket under the windshield wiper before slamming the door.
I jump up onto the sidewalk, ignoring the sign that says no parking after four. My phone rings, and I pull it out of my purse, seeing Callum’s name on the screen.
“Where are you?” he asks without a hello.
“Picking up my debutante monstrosity.”
“Aw, you’ll be beautiful.”
I laugh under my breath. “Maybe underneath.”
“Is that a taunt?”
“A dare,” I retort, stopping at the door to Lavinia’s. “A box of Cuban cigars that you can’t get it off of me on ball night.”
He falls silent, and I wait, my hand on the door. Was that too bold?
Then, he finally asks, “Real Cubans?”
I smile. Despite my feelings for Callum being complicated, he knows how to play. “They’re only illegal to poor people,” I tell him.
I open the door, stepping inside.
“And if you win, what do you want?” he asks.
“A box of Cuban cigars.”
A snort escapes him.
I walk into the shop, the crystal chandeliers glowing overhead, and I immediately cast a glance around, not seeing her. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.
“Can’t wait to see you in the dress,” he says.
“Well, you’re gonna have to, unfortunately.” I sigh, seeing no one at the counter. “See you at school tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
I hang up, slipping my phone into my bag, and I’m about to call out for Lavinia, but she appears from the back room, her lipstick looking eggplant against her purple dress.