Page 119 of Final Girls

But her heart knew otherwise.

Wiping away tears, Quincy crept down the hall, passing Janelle’s empty room. Across the hall, Betz had gone to bed, the closed door shutting out the view of those sad bunk beds. The door to Ramdy’s room was also closed, not quite blocking out the violent sloshing sound of the waterbed. Occasional grunts from Rodney rose with the tide.

Quincy turned into Craig’s room.

Fuck Craig.

It was her room now.

But it wasn’t empty. Someone was on the bed, a vague outline inthe moonlit gloom. He lay with his hands behind his head. Quincy faintly saw his wide-open eyes behind his dirty glasses.

“I didn’t know where to sleep,” he said.

Quincy stared at him, jealous of how comfortable he looked, how oblivious he was. She sniffed. She caught a tear before it could streak down her face.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“You need to go,” Quincy said.

He sat up, concern flickering in his half-obscured eyes. “You’re not okay.”

“No shit,” Quincy said, sitting on the bed. Another tear fell. This time she wasn’t able to stop it.

“I saw them leave together,” he said. “They walked into the woods.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

He touched her shoulder, the suddenness of the gesture making Quincy recoil.

“Please go,” she said.

“He doesn’t deserve you.”

When he touched her shoulder a second time, Quincy allowed it. Emboldened, his hand slipped down Quincy’s arm to her midriff. Again, she let him do it.

“You’re better than him,” he whispered. “Better than both of them. So pretty.”

“Thank you,” Quincy said.

“I mean it.”

Quincy turned to him, grateful for his presence. He seemed so sincere. So inexperienced. The opposite of Craig.

She leaned in and kissed him. His lips were hot against hers, kissing back. His tongue slid into her mouth. Tentative. Exploring. It made Quincy almost forget what she had seen in the woods. How Janelle was on top of Craig, riding him, her body radiating lust and pain.

But that wasn’t enough. Quincy wanted to forget completely.

Without a word, she climbed on top of him, surprised at how solid he felt beneath her. Like a downed tree. Sturdy oak. Quincy pulled offhis sweater, which smelled vaguely of industrial-strength cleaner. The odor stung her nose as she tossed it to the floor and tugged his T-shirt over his head.

She began to suck on his narrow chest, running her hands over the milky skin. So pale. So cold. Like a ghost.

Then her panties were off. His corduroys were at his knees.

On the floor beside the bed was Craig’s backpack. Inside was a box of condoms. Quincy pulled one out and gave it to Joe, placing it into his trembling palm.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

---