I meet Willow’s gaze. “How many people do you think saw that?”
She winces. “I found it because the headline and first image were in my inbox.”
Shit. Fuck.
No doubt that’s going to raise questions, whether or not they’re able to read the full article. Actually… at least that puts me in the clear. I’m not mentioned until the second half. But Greyson?
“His dad was in town last night,” she says.
I pause. “What?”
“His dad. The senator. They were photographed getting dinner together, hugging, the whole thing. The senator’s social media was making a big deal about visiting Crown Point to see the mayor and the president of CPU.”
“Protecting his investment. Isn’t he coming back for some charity thing next month, too?”
Willow grunts her affirmation. Paris had mentioned it—bragged about how her parents are coming in specifically for it.
I pace beside my bed. “Okay, so this article might’ve been planned for a while, or it could’ve been a spur-of-the-moment thing. All we know is that I didn’t say anything, and I can’t imagine Greyson would’ve either. Obviously.”
“Suspicious timing, for sure.”
I suck my lower lip between my teeth and think about everything that’s happened this semester. It just feels like everything is unraveling. Not just school but my life.
“Do you think it has to do with the breakin?”
Her face brightens, then falls. “What if it does? That’s fucking creepy.”
I grimace, then grab my phone again. I took a picture of my photo wall as evidence, and now I pull it up. The word whore is still harsh to read, but I block it out and zoom in on the prints.
“What are you looking for?” Willow rises on her knees and peers over my shoulder. “That’s awful, by the way. Still.”
“Yeah. I’m checking to see if there was a picture of my mom and I outside the hospital. It’s kind of like the one I posted on Instagram, but we’re both frowning in the one the paper used.” I shrug. “It’s just a hunch.”
“Did you have the frown printed out?”
I sag. “No idea.”
She chuckles and shakes her head. “Okay, Detective Reece. Let’s just… I mean, if it’s taken down, that’s not a bad thing. It’s actually probably good, they’ll just see the headline and the first paragraph in the email and think it’s… I don’t know, propaganda from a rival team or some shit. You know how everyone gets competitive when it gets close to the end of the regular season.”
Right. It’s barely seven o’clock in the morning—there’s a chance no one saw it.
Against my better judgment, I get ready for school with Willow. My muscles ache, and I find more than one bruise when I get dressed. I don’t particularly mind it. In fact, I think I like the reminder. I experiment by pressing on one of the bruises like Greyson probably would.
Never mind the bite marks he left on my neck and breast that have only just begun to fade.
The man is possessive with a capital P.
Anyway, we go to school, and all is fine for the first half of the day. Two people ask me about it, but I feign confusion and they leave it alone.
At lunch, Paris marches up to me with a scowl marring her face. She looks like hell—her makeup is full throttle, per usual, but it’s smudged. She needs another coat of gloss on her lips, and her hair has been hastily put up in a high ponytail.
Not bad, just not her style.
Clue number one that she’s pissed.
Willow makes a noise in the back of her throat.
Clue number two? She has what appears to be the photo they used of Greyson farther down in the article, of him on the ice, on her screen.
“How’d she get that?” I ask Willow out of the corner of my mouth.
We’ve been sitting at our table with Jess, Amanda, and a few other dance team girls for twenty minutes.
Paris gets closer, and her eyes laser into mine.
Belatedly, I realize she has a blue drink in her hand.
I’ve never seen her drink anything other than water or vodka—she’s on the clear liquid diet, she says—and I gulp.
“You bitch,” Paris snarls, stopping at the head of the table.
Then, in a fashion very similar to Greyson, she turns the cup over on my head.
The blue liquid crashes down over my hair, immediately soaking into my white graphic t-shirt. It’s ice-cold—actually, she did put ice in it. The cubes slide down my hair and under the collar of my shirt, catching in my bra and lap.
It’s so fucking cold, I can’t move for a moment.
The dining hall goes from loud to silent in an instant.
I stand slowly, brushing the ice chips and loose liquid off me. The faint plinks of the ice hitting the floor are the only noises.
“Obviously you have a problem with me,” I snap.
She sneers. “I wish I had half the balls you do, to be so bold and desperate as to try and hook up with my boyfriend—”
I whip my hand out before my reasoning can take over. My palm cracks against her cheek, and her head snaps to the side. My palm fucking stings, but I mask it. I can’t believe I just slapped her, but I’m so annoyed, I don’t have time to regret it.
“I’m so sick of your shit,” I tell her. “Now get the fuck out of my way.”
Paris turns back slowly, her eyes narrowing. I can see the thoughts that run through her head. She’s thinking of retaliation. She’s thinking through what the worst possible thing she can do to me is. Without another word, she pivots and stalks back the way she came.
She makes a beeline for the far corner of the room, where the hockey table sits.
My stomach knots.
“I didn’t see them,” Willow says, suddenly at my shoulder.
There’s a rustle of movement throughout the dining hall as people shift to watch where Paris is headed. Sure enough, she zeroes in on Greyson the same way she did to me. Minus the blue drink. Instead, she grabs the front of his shirt and slams her lips to his.
From our table, I have the perfect view.
It sears into my mind how he doesn’t push her away—he pulls her onto his lap. He kisses her like he should’ve kissed me last night. Their mouths open, and he dominates her. It’s clear in the way he holds her ass and her arm, in the way she gives in to him, even though she’s above him.
I’m going to be sick.
“Violet—”
“Don’t,” I whisper.
I have two options. I could run away, or I could walk out with my head held tall. Always with the dignity, I take my time grabbing my jacket and shrugging it on over my wet shirt. I flip my hair over my collar, ignoring the way the liquid still drips down my back.
I start to take my tray, but Amanda reaches out and covers my wrist.
“We got it,” she says.
My gaze lifts again. That’s the worst part. I actually look up and over at Greyson and Paris, who are still locked in an embrace.
But his eyes aren’t closed, and they’re not on her. He’s watching me out of the corner of his eye. We don’t have a conversation. It’s not like the movies where I can know what the fuck he’s thinking from his eyes, across the room, while he makes out with another girl.