He leaned in, hand now resting just above my ass. “Didn’t have to,” he whispered, “but you liked it.”
I swallowed, hard. My whole body was throbbing.
Someone handed me a drink. I didn’t even look at it.
The music thudded in my chest, but all I could feel was his hand, his mouth, the lingering pressure between my legs.
Then he leaned in again, low and rough in my ear.
“Still think this is just pretend?”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
Because I had no fucking clue what just happened.
But I knew–with terrifying clarity–that I wanted it to happen again.
12:30 AM
After that kiss nuked my nervous system, everyone either avoided eye contact or stared like I was a car crash in real time. Whispers trailed us. Chase moved through it like he’d been raised by wolves.
I camped by the snack table, pretending stale chips and warm beer mattered while my brain blue–screened. That kiss had hijacked every functional part of me and left me running on fumes and adrenaline.
Amber materialized before I could escape. Predator smile, designer swimsuit, moving with the focused intensity of someone who’d been waiting for this moment since freshman year.
“Love the whole transformation,” she said, scanning me like a barcode. “Didn’t know Hot Topic was your aesthetic. Very… committed.”
My pulse hammered against my ribs. I kept my face blank, mouth shut.
“This whole bad girl thing,” she continued, voice dripping fake concern, “it’s kind of desperate, don’t you think? Like, we get it- you’re having a moment. But this isn’t you.”
I opened my mouth to obliterate her, but Chase’s voice cut through first.
“Projection or jealousy?”
Amber’s spine went rigid. She didn’t turn around, but I watched her entire body language shift into defense mode.
Chase appeared beside her, soda can in hand, expression bored but dangerous. “Because that sounded personal.”
“It’s just a party,” Amber said, voice too bright, too forced.
“Then why are you working so hard to be the star?” He looked at her like she was a mildly interesting science experiment. “Seems exhausting.”
Her jaw clenched. No comeback. Nothing.
Chase’s eyes found mine. “You done?”
I nodded. More than done.
We walked away without looking back. Power move of the century.
His car was a tomb of silence and lingering cologne–something dark and slightly dangerous, like it came with a warning label. I folded my arms, stared out the window, heart still stuttering through everything that just happened.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Some rhythm only he understood. Neither of us spoke, but the silence had weight. I could still taste him. Still hear Amber’s voice, sweet as poison.
“You good?” he asked finally, not looking over.
“She thinks this is all a joke.”
“She’s terrified of you now. That’s progress.”
“I’m not trying to terrify anyone.”
“You did it anyway.”
The silence stretched thin. I picked at my sleeve until I found a loose thread and kept pulling, unraveling something that probably cost too much to replace.
“Still think this is pretend?” The words escaped before I could stop them.
He didn’t answer immediately. His fingers went still on the wheel. Jaw tightened. For a second, I thought he might say something that would break me.
But he just drove.
My driveway appeared too soon. Porch light glowing like a spotlight I didn’t want. Mom’s car was gone–probably another late shift at the hospital. The house looked hollow, like even it didn’t want to deal with tonight’s version of me.
I reached for the door handle, then stopped.
“I’m not sorry,” I whispered.
That got him. His mouth curved–not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. Something else entirely. Something that made tight.
“Good,” he said. “Sorry’s overrated anyway.”
I climbed out, legs still unsteady, and didn’t look back. But I could feel him watching until I got inside.
my chest
12:30 AM
Didn’t even make it to trigonometry before the intercom crackled my social death sentence: “Zoey Hale, report to Administration.”
Nobody looked. The gossip network had already distributed the memo.
The secretary handed me the slip like it might contaminate her manicure. Mouth pursed so tight she looked constipated. I walked that hallway with the kind of zen that only comes from accepting you’re about to get crucified for the crime of existing loudly.
Mrs. Peterson sat behind her desk with a manila folder that definitely had my name on it. She gestured to the chair like we were about to discuss my weekend book report instead of my apparent moral decay.
“We’ve received concerning feedback about your weekend activities,” she said, hands clasped like she was praying for my soul. “Multiple parents contacted us after seeing… photos.”
“What exactly did I do wrong?”
She blinked. Clearly hadn’t rehearsed for direct questions. “It’s not about specific actions. It’s about image. You’ve always been exemplary, Zoey. This transformation is… troubling.”
Transformation. Like I’d grown horns overnight instead of just growing a backbone.
“Are we talking about the same photos where I stood next to a boy?” I asked. “Because last I checked, that wasn’t illegal.”
This isn’t disciplinary,” she said quickly. “It’s preventative. We’re monitoring the situation.”
Translation: Step out of line again and we’ll destroy your college prospects.
I nodded like a good little soldier and walked out. But my hands were shaking and my mouth tasted like pennies.
That’s when Miles materialized by the lockers like a bad rash that wouldn’t clear up.
“They suspend you?” he asked, scanning my face for cracks in the armor.
“No. Disappointed?”
He stepped directly into my path. Blocking me like he still had rights. “You know this isn’t you.”
“What isn’t me?”
