Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Why do they have to be such assholes? Why do they have to do this to me? I wouldn’t have bothered them. I wouldn’t have stepped foot out of this room—and considering there were a bunch of football players downstairs, I would have wedged my chair under the doorknob, and that would have been it. I don’t know where they got this idea about me that I’m always looking for ways to ruin their lives. All they’ve done so far is ruin mine every chance they get.
It isn’t until I roll onto my back after struggling through the simple act of taking painkillers that I feel something strange. Something that shouldn’t be there. A stinging sensation like a bug bite or something under my clothes. My lower back—no, closer to my butt cheek. What the hell? Every time I try to move, it only feels more irritating. I guess I shouldn’t go back to sleep until I figure out what it is. I’d probably be more comfortable in actual pajamas, too, not the jeans I slept in all night. It means prying my eyes open again and being assaulted by sunlight.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
I almost jump straight up out of bed at the sound of Nix’s voice. “I thought you would never wake up.”
I slowly raise myself into a sitting position, eyeing him warily. He’s sitting in my desk chair, legs spread wide, hands folded over his stomach. “What did you do to me?” I whisper.
“You don’t remember? I guess it sort of wiped out your memory a little bit, huh?” Oh, he is so smug, so proud of himself. This is all a big joke to him. I don’t have it in me to scream the way I want or call him half the names running through my pounding head.
“What did you give me?”
“A mild sedative. No big deal. But like I said last night, I didn’t think you’d eat the whole damn meal. I guess that’s why you hit the ground so fast.”
“How fucked up do you have to be to think that’s an acceptable thing to do to somebody?”
“Hey, no harm done. You’ll feel better in a few hours, and I bet you got a good night’s sleep.”
“Go to hell.”
“Whatever you say.” He stands, grabbing something off my desk I’ve never seen before and tossing it onto the bed. “Anyway, before I go to hell the way you think I should, I figured I would give you this. You want to take care of that—keep it clean so it doesn’t get infected. And use this on it.”
I can barely even focus my eyes, much less read what’s on the bottle he dropped on the bed. “What are you talking about?” Even saying those few words is enough to exhaust me. He needs to leave the room so I can lie back down. I don’t trust him enough to do it now, but he’s still standing here.
“It’s lotion. For aftercare.”
“Aftercare for what, though?”
He tilts his head to the side, smirking. “You mean you really don’t remember? I thought for sure. Don’t you feel it?”
Dread begins tickling the back of my mind, spreading its way through my brain. “Remember what? Feel what?”
“The tattoo you wanted. You asked for it and everything.”
“Just stop fucking with me, please? That’s all I want.”
“You think I’m fucking with you? You’ll feel differently once you look in the mirror. It’s pretty nice work, actually. I’m almost jealous.”
A tattoo? No way would I ever ask for a tattoo—and I wasn’t even conscious. He’s just trying to scare me. I’m not going to make it that easy.
On the other hand… Wasn’t that the whole reason I was going to get up in the first place? The feeling that something was wrong, something I needed to check out?
I forget about the way my head feels, tumbling out of bed and stumbling toward the bathroom. No way. They wouldn’t do this to me. I go in and close the door, then lower my jeans and turn around.
Tears spring to my eyes at the sight of it. A small heart over my left butt cheek, low enough that it’s hidden by my clothes but most definitely there. I squint my eyes and move closer to the mirror. Even though it’s backward, the word is clear. Alistair. They had their last name tattooed on my ass.
Frantic, I rub at it, but it only hurts, and the ink doesn’t move. It’s a real tattoo, not something they drew on in pen to mess with me. A helpless, hopeless little whimper works its way from my throat. I can’t believe this. Just when I think I’ve seen it all from them, they go and remind me how much worse things could be.
“You asshole.” I fling the bathroom door open, buttoning my jeans, prepared to give him hell. But he’s already gone—and, big surprise, he locked the door. I pound my fist against it as loud as my poor head will let me, but there’s no sound from the other side. Not even laughter.