Page 19 of Five Things
“You wound me.” Pressing my hand to my chest, I gasp, barely dodging the fork he sends flying at me.
He hasn’t said shit about the little show this morning, but when his eyes flick to Beatrice and a small frown forms on his lips before he schools his expression, I’ve no doubts he’s seen it.
“So, party?” he asks again, flicking his gaze back to me. “Word on the street, Harlow’s going to be rocking up with a couple of her pals, which means we’re guaranteed to get our dicks wet.”
“I’m in,” Beck screeches, sliding over to us. Gray sidles up next, nodding his affirmative, which means it’s only me left.
The thought of getting my dick wet is so fucking unappealing right now it’s annoying . . . well, no, that’s a lie. My dick wants to get wet, just not with anybody I can actually fuck. But telling my friends that is a surefire way to get roasted day in, day out for the foreseeable future, so I just nod. “Fuck it. I’m in.”
“Fuck yeahh,” Nash hoots, pounding his fist against the table a couple times for good measure. “And we’ve got no practice tomorrow, so we are free agents for the night.”
“Time you thinking of heading over?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.
My gaze snags on Beatrice once more, her head tipped forward as she talks to her friend. Her eyes flick up, finding mine, and if it weren’t for the distance between us, I’d swear something akin to heat flashes through them, but she’s too far away for me to confirm.
Her friend stands, holding her hand out, and Beatrice looks away, taking the waiting palm. They start for the exit, and fuck if I can’t drag my eyes from the globes of her pert ass the whole way. Tiny black cycling shorts sit just under the curve of her cheeks, barely covered in an oversized Zeppelin top, which, given the way the dye has run, has no doubt come from her dad’s closet.
That’s always been one of her favorite things to do. Steal her dad’s old clothes. There was once a time I hoped she’d move on, picking from someone else’s wardrobe, but that ship has long since sailed.
Turn around, Beatrice. React, my mind shouts to her as she reaches the door, wanting to see her face once more before she leaves. Her shoulders tighten, her back going ramrod straight as her hand curls around the knob.Turn the fuck around.
I hold my breath, waiting for her to answer the silent command. Gray says something to me, but I don’t compute his words. My eyes narrow and time passes slowly, it must only be a second or two, but it feels like a lifetime.
And why, when she doesn’t turn but leaves the cafeteria without a backward glance, does it feel like something cracks inside of me?
Chapter Eight
Beatrice
“Wearthisone.”Maisieflings a dress at me, the bright-red material stark against my skin. I eye her suspiciously, opening the flimsy material to get a good look at it. “Trust me.”
My brow furrows, my nose wrinkling at the lack of material. Two spaghetti straps hold up the thinnest little slip ever. A square neckline that will land just above my cleavage, and a skirt that falls to barely below my ass. “I can’t wear this.”
“Why?” She looks down at my cycling shorts, her lips pursed together as her brow furrows before flicking her eyes back to mine. Her nose wrinkles and a frown plays on her lips. I don’t blame her confusion. Dressing modestly isn’t something I worry too much about living in California where most of the time it’s too hot to be covered in layers.
For too long I would dress in all the layers, sweating uncomfortably to make others happy with my appearance . . . that was one of the first things I changed with the help of therapy. I hate layers now, especially on my legs. But my chest isn’t something I ever put on display.
“Don’t you have something that has a high neckline?” I ask, but she doesn’t take the bait.
“Take off your top, Beatrice,” she demands, propping her hands on her hips and holding my gaze. I shake my head, fiddling with the dress in my hands. Dad’s old Zeppelin top, while comfortable, is old and worn, the colors long faded, but it’s a security blanket. “Come on. I’m your best friend now, which means I’m going to see your tits at some point, so best to get it over with now. Take it off.”
“Seriously, Mais,” I whine, turning on my heel and walking into the kitchenette. Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge with shaky hands, I twist off the cap, tipping it back until the cool liquid douses my dry throat.
“Seriously, Bea,” she echoes, following me. “Why won’t you take it off?”
I shrug, not answering.
She steps closer, tugging at the hem of the shirt until I look at her. She sighs softly, raising a brow as she steps back. Closing my eyes, I grip the bottom of the shirt, holding my breath as I pull the top over my head, dropping it onto my counter.
While she may have joked that one day she’d see my tits, it’s not the black lace-covered cleavage her eyes land on now that my skin is bare.
I open my eyes, a vicious chill working over my body. I’m too exposed like this, to the way she stares at me, full of sorrow and her lips turned down.
She spins without a word, walking into my bedroom, and hurt flashes over me. She’s gone for only a minute, but it’s long enough for my eyes to dip to my chest, the five round scars on display as I stand there half naked.
The skin is no longer red and angry like it once was, but pink and raised . . . a permanent reminder of the girl I once was. A tear rolls over my lashes, tracking down my cheek as I pull in a shuddering breath. Shame at the sight of the marks burning through me.
Maisie comes back, swapping the plastic bottle in my hand for a black dress. The material is still skimpy, short, and sultry, but this one has a high halter neck. My heart warms, and my eyes water even more when I glance at her.