I’m remembering his gentle kisses afterward. The way his lips look when he calls me sweetheart. How it feels when he tells me I’m his good girl. The sight of his face collapsing when I take him into my mouth. The weight of his eyes, always on me. The pressure of his arms around my waist when we’re on campus and I let him make a show of claiming me. All these memories come to me in a tidal wave—touches, glances, his fingers stroking a lock of my hair away from my face—and nothing about it seems anything less than painfully human.
I know exactly what Tristian wants.
“I want to be very clear, Gen. The reason it felt like you were fucking a robot when you were with him? It’s because you were flawed. Tristian couldn’t look at you because you were a fake, uncommitted cunt.” I’m the one to smile then, making sure to show all my teeth. “But what we have isn’t just about the sex—which, I can assure you, is fucking transcendent.” I give her a hard shove against the wall. We’re so close I can feel her heart race in her chest. “He would kill for me, Genevieve. Put a bullet in a body. Set a building on fire. Do whatever it takes to keep me safe.” Narrowing my eyes, I wonder, “Do you have a man in your life who would do that for you?”
I stare at her, waiting for an answer, and she finally shakes her head, croaking out a short, “No.”
“Well, I have three,” I snarl, releasing her with one last push against her windpipe. “You can think about that when you’re sleeping tonight, all alone in your bed. Because maybe he can’t be mine,” I slam my palm onto the wall beside her head, nose-to-nose with her, “but Tristian will never be yours. I will make fucking sure of it. I’ll show the Mercers which of us is the real trash. I’ll slander you. I’ll get you kicked out of Forsyth. I’ll have you exiled from this whole goddamn town if I have to. And Gen?” She coughs dramatically, rubbing her throat. There’s only one more thing I need her to know. “I’m not a fickle little bitch like you. I keep my promises.”
It isn’t until I step back that I see the figure standing in the doorway. I fight back a recoil at the realization we’re being watched, though I don’t know why I’m surprised.
Watching is what Tristian does, after all.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Perhaps a scolding, or maybe his cheering me on, or getting in a few of his own digs. He deserves that much, after all. But what I get is far more confusing.
He’s staring at me, face set into a motionless and unreadable mask. “Get the fuck out of my house.” I worry at first he’s talking to me, because his stare doesn’t waver when he chews out the words. But then he does look away—a simple flick of his eyes to her—and his nostrils twitch, flaring. “Now.” It’s a quiet, but undoubtedly deadly command.
“You psychos deserve each other,” she growls, pushing past me and then pushing past him. She scurries down the hall, her high heels clicking like an automatic weapon.
He doesn’t speak until the sound has completely disappeared. “You heard my parents before.”
I look away, but all I get is the reflection of my face. Red cheeks. Wild eyes. Lips that are pressed into a tense line. “They’re wrong about Gen,” I tell him, working up the courage to look into his eyes again. “But they’re not wrong about me.”
He watches me, the sounds of the party echoing down the corridors, not shattering the tense stillness between us. “You asked me before how you made me feel,” he starts, finally moving. Tristian stalks forward, slow and deliberate, until he’s right in front of me. “Do you still want to know?”
I swallow, reaching to grip the counter at my back. “Yes,” I quietly confess.
His blue eyes bore into mine, and try as I might, I can’t find the softness there. “You make me feel so fucking irritated,” he says, bearing down on me. “You won’t let me take care of you, even though you don’t take care of yourself. You don’t ask for help. You’re stubborn and impulsive. It makes me want to lock you inside your goddamn room and never let you out.” The words are blunt, without inflection or warmth. But when I look away, he reaches up to grab my chin, forcing me to look at him as he goes on. “You make me feel powerless, because I can’t order you around anymore. I have to wait and just, fucking,” his fists his free hand into my dress, right against my thigh, “hope that you do the right thing. That you come home at night. That you call us if something happens. That I won’t wake up tomorrow and find your bedroom empty, all your shit gone.” After a pause, he tacks on, “Or worse.”