Make You Beg

Grayson Law wears a Tom Ford light gray suit jacket with matching slacks and a white button-down shirt. He has that pretty-boy look with blue eyes and a sexy smile that just screams fuck-boy. But that couldn’t be further from who he is—that saying “looks can be deceiving” has never been truer when referring to Law.

Lastly, Dax Monroe. He looks over his shoulder, and my heart stops when he winks at me before following his friends and their parents down the hallway, then disappearing around the corner. Reporters flock to them like paparazzi to a celebrity caught out dining at an exclusive restaurant, calling his name.

A few choose to stay back and turn to me. Lights flash in my eyes, momentarily blinding me. “Henley? What do you have to say?” one asks, shoving a camera into my face.

Ducking my head, I’m glad I chose to wear my hair down today, so it gives me somewhat of a shield to my tear-streaked face.

“Get back!” my brother shouts, pushing the woman away from us.

“Henley, would you have testified …?”

Another reporter shouts over the other. “Why did you lie, Henley …?”

“I said get the fuck away.” My brother grabs my upper arm and yanks me down the hall before shoving me into the women’s bathroom. My hands shake, and I try to calm my breathing. “It’s going to be okay, Hen. I promise.”

He’s wrong. Nothing will be okay ever again. He doesn’t know what all I’ve done. How much those four boys meant to me. I hate that I ever gave Monroe something that I can’t get back. Any of them, for that matter. I hate that he’s walking free. And I hate that I did everything right, and it still wasn’t enough. He deserves to spend the rest of his life behind bars, but it won’t be that way.

I saw him. He looked right at me that night. I heard his voice. He spoke to me. He said my name. I felt his hands. It was him. He did it.

The tears run down my face, and I lick my wet lips. I had been drinking. That was what made my testimony laughable. A young underage girl partying where she shouldn’t have been didn’t hold a fucking candle to the Monroes and their connections. But I had to do what was right. The evidence? The lack of it is what kept him from a conviction. I taste the bile begin to rise.

“Henley …”

“Stop,” I choke out and push around him, my Gucci heels clicking on the tile while running into a stall. I drop to my knees and hug the toilet. He comes up behind me and grabs my hair.

“It’s okay.” He runs his free hand over my forehead.

I close my eyes tightly. It’s not. Nothing will ever be the same again. Scout tried to warn me. He told me that this would happen. I didn’t listen.

I lie down in my bed, trying to keep my eyes open. I’ve been so tired today and slept most of it. My body aches, and my chest feels tight after what I saw last night.

“Henley?”

I sit up in my bed when I hear Scout calling out my name. What is he doing here? Looking back down at my cell, lying on the sheet, I see it’s almost midnight.

“Henley?” It’s louder, letting me know he’s already coming up the stairs and about to barge into my room.

Jumping up from the bed, I run to the door, swinging it open just in time to see him standing in the hallway. His clothes are soaked, showing me every curve of his muscular body. Lifting his hands, he runs them through his dark hair to knock off the excess water that lands on the marble floor. He’s breathing heavily, and he stares at me with a mixture of emotions. His dark brows pull together, and he parts his lips and then closes them. He lets out a deep breath while narrowing his eyes.

My heart picks up at the accusation in them. He knows. “Scout—”

“Henley,” he growls, interrupting me. “What the fuck is going on? I got a call. Dax has been arrested. They said they had a witness.” He shakes his head, clearly confused and thinking he doesn’t have all the information yet. “I … I don’t understand.”

I lower my head, too ashamed to look at him. I did it. But will he understand why? Is he as loyal to me as he says?

“Hey.” He grips my chin softly and forces me to meet his green eyes. They soften. “Talk to me. What’s going on? Did he hurt you?” He looks me up and down, and hope blooms in my chest that maybe he cares about me. Maybe it hasn’t been an act.

“I did call the cops,” I say softly, mustering up the courage to tell him what I saw. What one of our best friends did.