by L V Chase
Damian expression turns cold. "My terms are simple. You agree, or the video comes out."
God knows that I've already played the bully more than enough with Cin. She's mad at me as it is, too, deservedly or not. She'll be even more pissed if I agree to this, maybe even enough to lose her for good.
But if she finds out that she was involved in Diana's death, she won't just hate me. I know Cin. She'll blame herself somehow. She'll think that she had a part in Diana's death. No, I'm not willing to have Cin hate herself.
I ignore Damian and move to the beer fridge. I grab a six-pack, change my mind and put it back, then grab a nearly full bottle of vodka that Eric had gotten the other day. It's sitting on a shelf next to the fridge.
"Well?" Damian asks. "You going to play your part?"
"Fuck you."
I head to my room with the bottle in my hand.
7
Cin
Twerking, it turns out, is a violation of the Geneva Convention. Pure torture.
I get into a squatting stance, my thighs burning after working on it for the last half hour, and attempt to shake my ass. It’s embarrassing. My ass is substantial enough that a moon could orbit around it, but it barely trembles to my movements.
With all of the overtime I’ve put into learning the choreography, I can mimic all of Desiree’s moves well enough to blend in with the other girls as long as nobody’s focused on me. But Desiree choreographed the twerking to happen nearly every thirty seconds, and I always end up looking like I’m trying to give myself the Heimlich maneuver. People will notice. I will go down in Roman Academy as “the convulsing squatter.”
I stand up again, rubbing my thighs. I stick my ass out again. I try to think sexy thoughts.
The door swings open. Grayson stumbles in. As he steadies himself, we lock eyes. The glossiness of his eyes—turning the blue into murky water—tells me he’s drunk.
It should intimidate me. I embarrassed myself in front of this whole school while I was videotaped drunk. My mother fell into violent tendencies when she was drunk. Diana was drunk when she attacked me. Occasionally, alcohol is my consolation and my crutch, but more often than not, it’s my adversary.
“Why do you always look scared when you see me?” he asks, only a hint of slurring in his voice. “Because you think I’m some sociopath that goes around stabbing sick girls?”
“No,” I say, slowly standing up straight.
Curiosity curls inside me. One of the most irritating parts of Grayson is that he’s constantly in control of everything. It makes him difficult to read. But if loose lips sink ships, then drunk mouths might confess crimes.
“I don’t look scared,” I add.
“You look terrified,” he says. “Look in the mirror.”
I turn. He keeps walking towards me, his staggered steps making him look like a predator stalking its prey. But I keep my eyes forward, not wanting him to think that I’m afraid.
“I don’t look afraid,” I say, staring at our reflection.
He’s directly behind me now.
“Liar,” he mutters. “You’re not close enough. The fear is in your eyes.”
I take a small step forward. He mimics my movement, staying close behind me. I spin around, my elbow hitting against his torso, and face him.
“Do I look afraid to you?” I ask, raising my chin in defiance. “Maybe you’re just projecting. You don’t know why you keep coming back to trailer trash, and it terrifies you.”
“I’m not afraid,” he says, his eyebrows slightly raised. “The only feeling you’re getting out of me is how badly I want to fuck you one more time.”
I gaze up at him. I can’t forget the idea that he’s a murderer simply because he incites an insurrection in my brain. But being wanted feels like a remedy for the emptiness that’s threatened me since I’d come back to campus. And I can’t deny that my heart isn’t racing from fear.
“If I murdered Diana, would you feel the rush of heat?” he asks.
He lowers his head enough that our mouths are dangerously close. I can almost taste the vapors of the alcohol on his breath.
“If I killed your roommate,” he says. “If I stabbed her to death, if I was a cold-blooded killer—why is your face so red?”
I turn away from him again, the sight of his lust threatening to swallow me. In the mirror, my cheeks are flushed. He wasn’t lying about that. My body remembers his body. It doesn’t care about asshole behavior or any murder.
In our reflection, his eyes travel down my body. I reach back towards him. My hands curl the loop of his pants. I yank on it, pulling him closer to me. Our hips knock against each other. His hands slip under my shirt, his fingers gliding over my stitches. His mouth is against the curve of my ear. I close my eyes, moving my hands up towards his head.
He snatches my wrists, slamming them against the mirror. A sharp pain runs down my arms, but it turns into a thrill as he grinds up against my ass. His hard arousal triggers a pool of warmth in the deepest parts of me.
There’s no civility in his movements. He wants what he wants, and I couldn’t stop him if I wanted to.
His left hand slides down my arm and then down my abdomen. A breath gets caught in my throat as he reaches under my sweatpants’ waistband. He cups my pussy over my underwear, sending ripples of pleasure and neediness up through me. He squeezes, a possessive gesture that presses a grateful exhale out of me.
I’ve built my identity around being combative—my tongue is quick to insult, my reflexes instruct me to strike back, and my brain sees every detail as a possible threat—but as he pins me against the mirror, subdued by a pinned wrist and his weight, I don’t feel like we’re on the battlefield.
He removes his hand from my sweatpants. It moves up to my throat, the slight wetness on his fingertips painting my neck.
“Take off your pants,” he rumbles into my ear.
When I don’t react, he grinds up against me, the heat and hardness of his erection triggering an insistent pulse between my legs. I scramble to use my one free hand to pull down my sweatpants. I sway my legs to get it past my knees. My underwear is harder to get off with the wetness making them cling to my skin. He hastily yanks everything down to my ankles.
As his face trails back up my body, he kisses my calves and the underside of my left knee. His hands skim up my sides until he’s standing up straight again. His hands continue their path, following my shoulder blades. One of his hands glides across my clavicle.
He seizes me by the jaw, pressing my cheek against the mirror. My breath clouds against it, giving the strange portrayal of a powerless woman who can breathe smoke and fire.
It would be a stunning painting.
My eyes wander to the other mirrors, where I can see a side view of us. At some point, he managed to get his pants and boxer briefs to his ankles. Having sex like this should feel trashy as fuck, but I’m shameless and he’s impatient. Or vice versa.
His cock teases my entrance. My ass pushes back against him, as he keeps my face pressed against the mirror. My breath has blurred our reflections out. All I can see are the colors of our lower bodies in my periphery.
His foot knocks my feet farther apart. His hand grazes up my thigh. I close my eyes, my teeth digging into my bottom lip as he caresses under my entrance. I sway against the mirror, desperate for more contact.
He thrusts into me so hard, my thighs slam against the mirror. Striations of pain shoot through me, but as my body adjusts to his size, the discomfort melts like candle wax, turning into a molten bliss. He pulls out of me with slow deliberation.
And he fucks me like it’s the end of the world.
Every thrust hammers me against the mirrors. When he removes his hand from my jaw, I press my forehead against the mirror to try to stop my head from slamming into the mirror as well, but I wouldn’t have cared if it did. As long as the heat and pressure of his cock remain, I could suffer through any brain damage happily.
His ragged, alcohol-soaked
breath moves over me, intoxicating me with its desperation. He snatches my wrists up again, slamming them beside my head. The sound of heavy breaths collides with our bodies smacking against each other. I push up against him, my hands in fists.
He pulls me back from the mirror, his cock still filling me. Our sweaty thighs rub against each other. He releases my wrists, his hand moving back to my jaw. He points my head straight ahead. I see us. Perspiration stains the front of my shirt. The intensity of his eyes causes the tension in me to tighten.
“I could fuck you like this five times a day,” he whispers in my ear. “I don’t even want you to walk tomorrow.”
He forces me forward again, leaving a couple of inches before we reach the mirror. He grabs my wrist again, moving my hand down to my clit. His fingers press down on my fingers, forcing me to touch myself. He starts fucking me again, slow at first, but building up to the same speed. The back of his hand smacks against the mirror, but it causes his hand to jolt against my hand, causing a teasing friction on my clit.
His teeth brush against my earlobe before he kisses behind my ear. The softest touch followed by plowing into me is so vicious and unforgiving and goddamn sweet.
It’s all I need to send me over the edge. Pleasure unravels inside me, a dangerous cyclone, as my pussy rapidly pulsates around his cock. A moan ripples out of me, barely giving justice to the euphoria inside me. Every muscle in my body feels like it turns to confetti. He slams me against the mirror once more, and I hear his teeth grinding in my ear as his body hangs heavily over mine. A low, deep sound rumbles in his throat. After several seconds, my body fading into exhaustion, and he exhales slowly. Even our orgasms reflect each other.
He pulls out of me. I slowly slump to the ground. He drops down beside me, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Time must be passing by, but all my thoughts are gone. All I know is the pleasure that tingles through my veins.
He looks towards the mirror. I follow his gaze. It’s still covered by my mouth’s condensation along with the steam-induced outline of my body. I wish I could cut out the glass and frame it, but it evaporates. Everything does.
8
Grayson
I have one arm wrapped around Cin as she lies against me, her hair fanning out in a curtain of golden brown. A slick puddle of sweat coats the laminated floor underneath my back, but I don't want to move. I don't want this moment to end.
"Your heart's pounding," Cin says. Her head leans on the center of me chest.
"That's what hearts do," I reply.
She traces shapes on my abs with her finger tips. I tense slightly, and she follows the ridges of the muscled grooves. She plays with my abs for a little longer, her fingers running teasingly low then back up again.
"I'd paint these abs if you'd let me," Cin says. "Candy cane stripes. White and pink. What do you think?"
I reach over and pinch a nipple, drawing a small squeak. "I think you like painting too much."
Cin laughs. "I do."
Her fingers continue following the contours of my abs for a few more seconds before she rests her hand on me.
"I'm thinking of painting for the talent show," Cin says. "Speed painting."
The way she says it, I know there's more.
I stroke her hair, combing it with my fingers. "But..."
"But the other girls are putting on a dance. They insist that I be a backup dancer in their show."
"Leave it to me." I hesitate, thinking of Damian.
"You’re frowning," Cin says, looking up at me.
"It's nothing. Listen, I'll take care of the girls, but don't tell anyone what I did."
Cin pulls away from me and sits up. I pull myself forward and turn to face her. Her brows are furrowed, her mouth pursed.
"Why?" Cin asks. "What's your problem? Are you ashamed of me? Don't want people to think your slumming it with the nasty girl?"
"No." I reach out to take Cin's hand, but she pulls away. "Nothing like that. It's for your own good."
"My own good? Like when you were supposed to protect me from others being jealous? Oh my god, Grayson." Cin gets up and starts putting on her clothes again. "Are we going to do this all over again?"
"It's different this time," I reply. I can't tell her about Damian and Brady. I can't.
"Seems like the same to me."
Cin's almost done getting dressed. She picks up my shirt and whips it at me. I catch it with one hand.
"Listen, Cin. There's shit going on I can't talk about it. Just trust me. I don't want it like this, either, but it has to be like this."
Cin stares at me, her mouth in a tight line.
"It's not so fucking hard," I say. "Just trust me, damn it."
Cin shakes her head slightly, then turns and leaves the dance studio.
I watch her departing figure. I slap the ground hard, the sound echoing throughout the empty studio. Fucking hell, Cin, fucking hell. Why can't she trust me for once?
I get dressed and head out myself. For a second, I think of chasing down Cin, but I decide against it and head back to my villa instead.
I'm only about halfway back, when a girl's voice calls out to me.
"Grayson!"
A pale, wispy figure rushes towards me from the side. It's Aurora. She's smiling, which is never a good sign. I stop, ready to fend off whatever bullshit she's going to feed me, but she surprises me.
She spreads her arms and wraps me in a hug. I'm too disoriented at her acting weird to stop her.
"Grayson!" she coos. "I'm so glad I finally found you."
I stiffen my body while she continues to hug me. She sniffs like she's trying to smell me. I don't care if she smells Cin, or the sex we just had. I flex my arms and chest, pushing outward against Aurora's arms. She gets the hint and lets go.
She looks at me with wide eyes, still with that fake smile on her face. "Where have you been?"
"Does it matter?"
"I..." Aurora bites her lip. "I was just wondering."
Did she need me for something? Or was she just stalking me? I don't have to tell her anything, but I decide to throw her a bone so that she'll leave me alone.
"I was over at the dance studio with Hayden," I say. "You know Hayden? Hayden Crocker?"
Aurora tilts her head in thought. "Hayden? The name's familiar. Wait, isn't he that nerdy kid?"
"Nah, he's cool. I was helping him out. We were going over some dance moves."
"Really." Aurora arches an eyebrow. "Since when did you start hanging out with Hayden Crocker? He doesn't seem like your type."
"My type?" I shake my head. "I'm working on his dance moves, not trying to fuck him."
"You know what I mean," Aurora says, her face still skeptical.
She's not buying it. Hell, I wouldn't, either.
I laugh. "You're right. But do you know who his dad is?"
"No, who?"
"The DA."
Aurora frowns, then nods in understanding.
"Yeah," I say. "It's a business thing. A family responsibility, you could say."
"Oh." Aurora's quiet for a moment as if thinking. "Well, okay. I saw you leaving the dance studio. I saw Cinnamon walking around nearby. I don't know. I just thought—"
"Shit, so you were stalking me? The fuck is wrong with you?" I step up to her and stab a finger into her face. "Quit that shit. Now. Got it?"
Aurora flinches but doesn't back away. "Don't forget. I've got that video of you screwing Cinnamon on the bleachers."
"So? I don't give a fuck."
An instant of panic flashes across Aurora's. Her eyes dart to the left and right before she meets my gaze again.
"Dad doesn't know the full story," she says. "I'll tell him."
"Full story? Tell him whatever the fuck you want. See if I care."
I move to step away, but Aurora grabs me by the front of the shirt.
"Wait!" she cries out.
I glance down at her hand and look back at her, scowling. Her arm trembles, and she lets go of my shirt.
"He doesn't know everything. About how you went soft on Cinnamon. That you switched her out for Robert Brady. With Diana. That Cinnamon's the reason Diana’s dead."
"What? Cin didn't kill Diana."
I know that's not what Aurora means, but I'm not sure how else to respond. She's heard too much from Dad talking to me. She's pieced together everything in her own way, and she knows too much. Plus, she's starting to acting fucking crazy with this stalker shit. Like she won't leave me alone.
I don't know what's gotten into her, but with what she knows, she's becoming dangerous. A threat, not just to me, but to Cin. And this goes beyond ruining a painting or other petty bullshit. Aurora could hurt Cin, for real.
And that really pisses me off.
"Dad will be mad," Aurora says more loudly, regaining her misplaced courage. "I'll show him and tell him everything. I will. I'll tell everyone. Don't forget that I can."
"I won't," I reply.
I grab her by her slim shoulders, holding her between my hands. She's thinner than Cin, frail almost. I could snap her like a twig if I squeezed my hands together hard enough.
So, I squeeze.
Aurora makes a whimpering noise. She tries to twist out of my grip, but there's no way she can escape.
"That almost sounded like a threat," I say in a low voice. "Almost. Which would be real stupid, because you know what Dad and I both do to threats. What I'll do to you."
I ease up on the pressure, but I'm still holding her by the shoulders. "I'll just pretend that all I heard was a stupid girl talking about shit she doesn't get. How's that sound?"
"I...I..." Aurora's shaking.
I nod. "Good. No more crazy talk. You know what happened to the last girl to go crazy."
I let go of Aurora and walk away.
She needs to think I'm crazy. She needs to think I'm an asshole, a bully, even a killer. They all do. If that's what's needed to keep Cin safe, so be it.
9
Cin
