I lick my lips, feeling the warm metal graze my tongue.
Misha.
But then I blink awake, my room coming into view and the fog in my head slowly clearing. Misha? I was kissing Masen in my dream. Why did I call him Misha?
Damn. I take my pillow out from under my head and cover my face with it. I’m a mess. I’d fantasized about Misha before, in one of my kinky alternate realities where he writes me dirty letters and finally sneaks into my room, and that’s the first time I meet him, when he’s sliding into me.
But he never has a face. I always got the impression he was tall and dark, though, but I never knew for sure. I guess after everything last night, and how this new guy is in my head now, my brain made a connection.
My fantasies finally found Misha a face.
Taking the pillow off my head, I drop it to the side, yesterday’s events playing in my mind. I bring up my hand, twisting it around to see the remnants of his Sharpie on the inside of my finger. I glance at my chalk wall ahead and see where I added Shame to the bottom of the list.
Alone
Empty
Fraud
Shame
The words hurt, but last night I realized something. There’s more I’m not seeing. The first word, Alone, was written in his bunk at the Cove. That’s not about me. It has to do with something else. These words mean something else.
And then the car and the fight… I’d walked out to the parking lot after school, immediately spotting Masen putting something in my Jeep. I’d charged down the steps, ready to tell him off, especially after what he did to my scarf, but when I saw what was sitting on the seat of my car I paused.
Of course it was tacky to give me another woman’s scarf, but I was a little thrown off that he would feel guilty enough to want to make up for it in the first place. It was beautiful and soft and I wanted to keep it.
And then the car wash. How excited I felt when he stalked me like I was prey. How the smooth curve of the piercing felt when I slipped the tip of my tongue through the hoop. How he was so patient and not greedy or selfish, just letting me explore.
How his hand inched possessively up under my shirt, sending me reeling.
I bring my fingers up to my mouth, grazing the tip of one with my tongue. It tickles a little, but it’s teasing, too. Did he like it when I did that? I wanted to feel good to him, even if I only admit it to myself.
I trail my hand across my cheek and down my neck, wishing it was his hands. Wishing I could go back to last night and not cut him off, making him take me back to school, so I could get my car and run away.
But the truth is…I’m starting to think about him. A lot, and I don’t know why. Especially when he’s constantly in my face, telling me what I’m doing wrong.
I’ve never been in danger of losing my heart to guys like Trey, but with Masen, I find him consuming my attention. I’m always aware of him.
And the closer I get to him, the further away from Misha I feel. It almost feels like I’m betraying him. Not that we’re romantic, but he has my heart, and I don’t want to give it to anyone else. I feel like Masen threatens that.
I said I would give Misha a few days, but I need to know. Is he safe? Is he alive? Has he just moved on?
Pulling off the covers, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I look at the clock and see that it’s after nine.
It’s Saturday. I have the whole day free. I could just drive by.
Not like an obsessive stalker girl who just can’t take a hint. No, I can just drive by. Make sure the house hasn’t burned down or isn’t empty, because his father committed some gruesome murder and left town, on the run, with Misha and his sister in the middle of the night.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll see a young guy pulling into the driveway and entering the house, and I’ll be able to tell that it’s him, and then I’ll know that he’s alive and well. I don’t have to have any more answers than that, do I?
Standing up, I throw on a pair of workout shorts, a T-shirt, and a fleece jacket. Pulling my hair up into a messy ponytail, I’m not going to worry about how I look. If I go shower and fix my hair and make-up, I’ll be tempted to knock on his door. If I look like shit, then I won’t leave my car.
After I brush my teeth, I jog down the stairs and swing around the bannister, heading into the kitchen.
“Morning,” my mom says.
I look up to see her and Carson sitting at the table, looking through a magazine together. Probably some home renovation thing, because Mom wants to expand the garage. I open the refrigerator and pull out a bottle of water. “Morning,” I reply.
“The principal called last night,” my sister’s voice rings out.
I falter, slowly closing the fridge door and not looking at her. Shit. That’s right.
Did she tell them about what I did to Masen’s truck? Or what I told her I did?
Dammit!
But no. My mom would’ve reamed me last night when I got home. She wouldn’t have waited until this morning.
Plus, I doubt the principal really believed me, but there was little she could do.
“She said you’re going to prom with Trey,” my mom says, walking over to me in her bathrobe and her hair up in a bun. She empties her coffee cup into the sink. “She wanted to know your favorite color for the corsage. Why didn’t you tell us he’d asked you?”
“I forgot.” I shrug, relaxing a little. “You were gone, and I’ve been busy.”
Actually, I didn’t feel it was worth mentioning. Popular girl is going to prom with popular guy. My place in the yearbook is secure.
Misha.
But then I blink awake, my room coming into view and the fog in my head slowly clearing. Misha? I was kissing Masen in my dream. Why did I call him Misha?
Damn. I take my pillow out from under my head and cover my face with it. I’m a mess. I’d fantasized about Misha before, in one of my kinky alternate realities where he writes me dirty letters and finally sneaks into my room, and that’s the first time I meet him, when he’s sliding into me.
But he never has a face. I always got the impression he was tall and dark, though, but I never knew for sure. I guess after everything last night, and how this new guy is in my head now, my brain made a connection.
My fantasies finally found Misha a face.
Taking the pillow off my head, I drop it to the side, yesterday’s events playing in my mind. I bring up my hand, twisting it around to see the remnants of his Sharpie on the inside of my finger. I glance at my chalk wall ahead and see where I added Shame to the bottom of the list.
Alone
Empty
Fraud
Shame
The words hurt, but last night I realized something. There’s more I’m not seeing. The first word, Alone, was written in his bunk at the Cove. That’s not about me. It has to do with something else. These words mean something else.
And then the car and the fight… I’d walked out to the parking lot after school, immediately spotting Masen putting something in my Jeep. I’d charged down the steps, ready to tell him off, especially after what he did to my scarf, but when I saw what was sitting on the seat of my car I paused.
Of course it was tacky to give me another woman’s scarf, but I was a little thrown off that he would feel guilty enough to want to make up for it in the first place. It was beautiful and soft and I wanted to keep it.
And then the car wash. How excited I felt when he stalked me like I was prey. How the smooth curve of the piercing felt when I slipped the tip of my tongue through the hoop. How he was so patient and not greedy or selfish, just letting me explore.
How his hand inched possessively up under my shirt, sending me reeling.
I bring my fingers up to my mouth, grazing the tip of one with my tongue. It tickles a little, but it’s teasing, too. Did he like it when I did that? I wanted to feel good to him, even if I only admit it to myself.
I trail my hand across my cheek and down my neck, wishing it was his hands. Wishing I could go back to last night and not cut him off, making him take me back to school, so I could get my car and run away.
But the truth is…I’m starting to think about him. A lot, and I don’t know why. Especially when he’s constantly in my face, telling me what I’m doing wrong.
I’ve never been in danger of losing my heart to guys like Trey, but with Masen, I find him consuming my attention. I’m always aware of him.
And the closer I get to him, the further away from Misha I feel. It almost feels like I’m betraying him. Not that we’re romantic, but he has my heart, and I don’t want to give it to anyone else. I feel like Masen threatens that.
I said I would give Misha a few days, but I need to know. Is he safe? Is he alive? Has he just moved on?
Pulling off the covers, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I look at the clock and see that it’s after nine.
It’s Saturday. I have the whole day free. I could just drive by.
Not like an obsessive stalker girl who just can’t take a hint. No, I can just drive by. Make sure the house hasn’t burned down or isn’t empty, because his father committed some gruesome murder and left town, on the run, with Misha and his sister in the middle of the night.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll see a young guy pulling into the driveway and entering the house, and I’ll be able to tell that it’s him, and then I’ll know that he’s alive and well. I don’t have to have any more answers than that, do I?
Standing up, I throw on a pair of workout shorts, a T-shirt, and a fleece jacket. Pulling my hair up into a messy ponytail, I’m not going to worry about how I look. If I go shower and fix my hair and make-up, I’ll be tempted to knock on his door. If I look like shit, then I won’t leave my car.
After I brush my teeth, I jog down the stairs and swing around the bannister, heading into the kitchen.
“Morning,” my mom says.
I look up to see her and Carson sitting at the table, looking through a magazine together. Probably some home renovation thing, because Mom wants to expand the garage. I open the refrigerator and pull out a bottle of water. “Morning,” I reply.
“The principal called last night,” my sister’s voice rings out.
I falter, slowly closing the fridge door and not looking at her. Shit. That’s right.
Did she tell them about what I did to Masen’s truck? Or what I told her I did?
Dammit!
But no. My mom would’ve reamed me last night when I got home. She wouldn’t have waited until this morning.
Plus, I doubt the principal really believed me, but there was little she could do.
“She said you’re going to prom with Trey,” my mom says, walking over to me in her bathrobe and her hair up in a bun. She empties her coffee cup into the sink. “She wanted to know your favorite color for the corsage. Why didn’t you tell us he’d asked you?”
“I forgot.” I shrug, relaxing a little. “You were gone, and I’ve been busy.”
Actually, I didn’t feel it was worth mentioning. Popular girl is going to prom with popular guy. My place in the yearbook is secure.
