Hold You Against Me (Stripped 4)

His lips are close to mine. “Go back to your place and get dressed. I’ll watch.”

Unease twists my stomach, along with guilt I don’t want to examine too closely. “Amy will come with me. You go ahead with the guys.”

Shane might be a jock, but he’s not stupid. He knows a rejection when he hears one. His lips firm. He tightens his hands on my hips, and for a tense moment, I think he’s going to do something crazy, something violent, right here in front of everyone. His impatience has been getting stronger, his temper more extreme. Always in the privacy of a dark corner or his apartment on the rare occasion I visit him.

Always followed by an apology and a promise never to do it again.

“Hurry,” he says finally, his voice sharp. “You don’t want to miss all the fun.”

Then he’s gone in a swirl of testosterone, the raucous laughter of his teammates bouncing off the stately brick facades of university buildings.

We stand in silence, watching them go, until they round the corner at the end of the block, their shouts melting into the persistent clamor of Party Row. Even two blocks away you can almost feel the bass in the concrete beneath us, the sex and the glitter and the casual expectations.

“You okay?” Amy asks quietly.

I haven’t been okay in years. Not since the night my sister and I went on the run. Not since the boy I loved gave up his life so we would be safe. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

She frowns. “I don’t like the way he looked at you.”

“He’s drunk.”

“And you’re making excuses.” There’s a pause, dark with speculation. “Are you still holding out on him?”

There’s that shame again, but for all the wrong reasons. Shane and I have been dating for months. I’ve let him get to second base, but we haven’t had sex. This isn’t freaking middle school. Who does th

at?

I do, apparently. He would be humiliated if his teammates found out.

I’m just not ready to give up my virginity. Not when you saved it for him.

Which is crazy, because the boy of my teenage fantasies is dead. Shane is alive and so very willing.

“We’ll do it soon,” I say, but that sounds like a lie.

A small part of me feels guilty for stringing Shane along.

Most of me feels guilty for even considering having sex with anyone who isn’t Giovanni.

“Oh, Clara.” There’s a wealth of meaning in those two words. I don’t think you should be with him. Doesn’t it mean something that you won’t have sex with him? Something is holding you back.

I’ve heard it before, and I can’t even deny it. I can’t explain it either. Giovanni is my secret, a shard of glass buried so deep in my soul it would kill me to remove it.

“Let’s hurry,” I say, my voice hollow. “We don’t want to miss all the fun.”

Chapter Two

I decide on a dark skirt and a black slinky sleeveless top that drapes low in the back. I finish the outfit with a glitter-gold headband that looks half-vintage, half-party girl. I’d love to wear my low black heels so I can dance the night away—it’s more fun than sitting on Shane’s lap while he trades mildly sexist jokes with his buddies. Instead I pull on my four-inch black heels studded with gold Swarovski crystals.

“Gorgeous,” Amy says, but I hear the judgment in her voice.

“They are gorgeous.” I don’t have any right to be indignant, because I’m only wearing them for Shane. He likes me to look a certain way when we go out. That kind of control seems weird to Amy—and, well, maybe to most girls my age. But I was raised to be a mafia princess, someone who shuts her mouth and looks pretty. It’s not a destiny I’ve fulfilled, but some of the lessons never go away.

Amy sighs and adjusts her silver dewdrop choker in the bathroom mirror. She borrowed a silver dress with ruffles and a short hem from my closet so we wouldn’t have to stop at her apartment. “Aren’t you going to Honor’s house tomorrow?”

“Regular Sunday night. Why? You want some real food?” We usually subsist on the food stands scattered around campus. There’s a pretzel-dog guy outside the art history museum who knows my order before I say a word. Ever since my sister got married, she’s turned into a regular Martha Stewart. Her house is like some country-chic magazine spread with fresh-baked muffins on the counter.

Amy clips a strand of pink hair and shakes her head so it blends. “Nah, I’m good.” There’s a suspicious pause while she adjusts hair that already looks fine. “You should bring Shane. Introduce him.”