Punk 57

“What?” I prod, reaching in and trying to grab the stack away from him.

“It’s nothing.” He tries to replace the board. “It’s not what I’m looking for.”

But I force my way in and rip the stack out of his hand.

Shooting him a joking little scowl, I turn the cards over and look at them.

My chest caves. Oh, my God.

They’re not cards. They’re pictures. Four by sixes by the looks of it, and I stare at each image, shuffling the cards one after another, my stomach churning.

Lindsey Beck, a senior who graduated last year.

Fara Corelli, a senior in my class this year.

Abigail Dunst, another senior.

Sylvie Lanquist, a junior.

Georgia York. J.D.’s older sister. He probably doesn’t have any idea about that.

Girl after girl, naked and in a variety of different poses. Some of them are selfies, some of them taken by someone else, and in one of them, Trey has a girl straddling him. His face holds a sleazy smile.

Disgusted, I curl my fingers around the pictures.

Brandy Matthews is naked and on her hands and knees, the camera catching the side of her face as Trey, I would assume, kneels behind her and takes the picture.

My heart races, and I feel like it’s going to jump out of my chest. I shuffle the next card and see Sylvie, her mouth open and…

I drop my hands, looking away. Gross.

My God. What’s wrong with him? Who takes pictures of that many women—girls—committing sexual acts? Did they know he was doing it to all of them? And Sylvie’s the sweetest kid. How long did he sweet-talk her to get what he wanted?

“I’m sorry, babe.”

I scoff, tossing the pics on the dresser. “You think I don’t know what he’s about?”

“Well, you are still going to prom with him.”

I shoot a look over to him, aggravated he keeps bringing that up.

No. I’m not going to prom with Trey. Not anymore. If he treats girls he’s able to get naked like that, how will he treat someone he can’t get into bed?

But I won’t tell Masen that. He’ll just gloat.

I look down and see another picture in his hand and inch forward. “What is that?”

He hoods his eyes, shaking his head like I need to leave it alone. I dart out and snatch the picture, holding it up in front of me.

Lyla is naked and wet, her hair soaked and sticking to her cheeks and neck, and she’s posing against what looks like a shower wall, her arms over her head and her breasts on display. Her eyes taunt the camera—or whoever’s behind it.

Trey. If he’s not the one with the camera, he still has the picture of her.

But I’m not fooling myself. They fucked. And recently, too. Lyla’s wearing the bronze wrist cuff she bought when we shopped three Saturdays ago.

I don’t care about him, and I don’t really like her, so why do I feel my eyes burning and my throat aching with a scream?

I’m not jealous he got from her what he wasn’t getting from me, and I’m not jealous they got off on each other. But why did they feel they could do it behind my back?