Worse Than Enemies

I’m still trembling when he pulls out, taking himself in his hand and jerking until he comes across my stomach like he did before. Only this time I don’t feel so used. So dirty and confused. This time, there’s something right to it.

He kisses me once more—slowly, almost tenderly—before getting up. “Stay there,” he tells me, so I stay where I am while he goes to the bathroom. He comes back with a washcloth, and I watch, fascinated by him, while he cleans me up.

Our eyes meet and he chuckles softly. “Maybe next time I’ll take it and put it up inside you,” he suggests, wearing a devious grin. “What about that? Pregnant with your stepbrother’s baby.”

I shudder, shaking my head. “No, thanks.”

“What?”

“I’m not trying to have a baby, especially not by my stepbrother.” It’s almost laughable, the idea. “Honestly, now that you mention it, we probably shouldn’t do this anymore. I mean, obviously I like it, but it’s pretty risky. I don’t want to have a baby.”

He looks away, and I’m afraid I might have said the wrong thing even if I can’t imagine what. It’s only common sense. The last thing we need is to ruin everything that way.

“What’s wrong?” I ask when he turns his back on me and bends to pick up his shorts off the floor.

I’m halfway to a sitting position when he spins around, holding up his phone. I don’t have time to cover myself before he snaps a picture of me still practically splayed out, naked. “Why did you do that?” I whisper, horrified.

“I like seeing you like that.” Any trace of warmth or gentleness is gone from his voice. It’s back to being flat, almost lifeless. “And now, it’ll be a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”

“If you let Frankie or any other guy anywhere near you, I’m sending this picture to everybody you know. Including your mother,” he adds when my mouth falls open in dismay. “So, keep that in mind.”

“You can’t do this. It’s not fair!” All he does is laugh, barely waiting until his shorts are on before he gathers up the rest of his clothes and leaves the room.

22

I hate feeling like I have a secret. Maybe some people like knowing things nobody else knows about. Maybe it makes them feel special. I’m not one of those people.

As I walk through the cafeteria, I can’t help but wonder what people would think if they knew the real Hayes. I’m sure there isn’t a single student walking in this morning who wouldn’t know exactly who I meant when I said his first name. And if I asked what they thought about him, it would depend upon the person I asked, but the answers would be the same. Cool, popular, athletic, hot. An all-around great guy. Sure, he has an attitude problem, but it only adds to his mystique. He’s a talented athlete who pulls great grades seemingly without trying, so he can be allowed the occasional outburst or display of ego.

I’m sure not a single person waiting in line for coffee or to get a breakfast sandwich has the first idea of what really goes on in his head. What he’s capable of doing.

And how damn addictive it is. Because as much as I hate the way he uses me, I only end up wanting more.

“Salem. Good to see you. You feeling better?” I hear the question being asked before I notice her approach. She only gives the guy who asked it a thumbs-up, though, it’s pretty obvious from his tone how he meant it. She’s not taking the bait. I have to give her credit.

Instantly, Salem frowns at me. “Did you get any sleep at all last night?”

So the makeup wasn’t enough to cover up the bags under my eyes. “Is it that obvious?”

“It’s really bothering you, isn’t it? What we talked about last night?”

Right. I almost forgot about that. “A little.” That’s not a lie, even if it’s not what’s at the forefront of my mind. There’s a certain photo of me living on Hayes’s phone, and I still don’t know if I can trust him not to spread it around. I can’t ask her whether I can trust him with something like that without having to admit to a lot of other things I would rather she not know about. I’m not exactly proud of myself for letting this go on, especially since I end up liking it every time he uses me.

“Maybe you should talk to the school counselor. You don’t have to use any names, but they might be able to give you advice.”

“You might be right.” I need more than that. Much more.

He’s broken inside. I guessed it, but now I know for sure. It doesn’t take a genius to see he acts out against me whenever his coach touches him—or worse. It’s his way of venting his pain.