Page 28 of Hush, Hush

“Sure, I did. That’s just the kind of person I am.”

My lips are still worn from having his dick shoved down my throat, so I don’t appreciate his answer. “Listen here, Keegan Forbes. If you want to go anywhere near me again, you’ll knock your shit off. Idon’tshare. I’m not going to be your perfect little housewife who sits around muted when you say dumb shit or come home smelling like another woman.”

“Yet, you do now.”

He presses down on the accelerator, and we fly through town, rolling through stop signs and roaring through the back roads as we turn toward Carnegie. The whole drive, I sit there with my nails digging into my thighs. He drives with a fierceness, a domineering control over the machine, and I wonder if the way he’s driving is him trying to gain back a little authority from what he feels like he lost in the office.

Also, he knows I hate it when he drives this fast.

The vehicle comes to a squealing stop in the lot closest to my dorm. I whip my seatbelt off and face him. “You’re trying to push my buttons. Well, get over it, Keegan. You know how I feel about you. Do you think I’ve done anything like that before? Do you—?”

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask. Howdidyou learn how to suck dick that good?”

I gnash my teeth together, my heart beating like a rabid animal in my chest. His first reaction is to argue—to fight. I once heard my dad say that the Forbes never start an argument they can’t win. Maybe I’m onto something here. When Keegan feels as if he’s lost his edge, he does a one-eighty, turning into the guy who can decimate others with a few words. “I took my cues from you,” I tell him softly. “When you moaned, when you gripped my hair so hard it felt like you were going to rip it from my scalp, I knew I was doing a good job. You. Broke. And that’s—”

He clenches his fingers around the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. “Get out.”

I blink, not expecting the pure venom in his voice. Sure, we’re fighting, but I thought we might finally be getting somewhere.

“Get the fuck out!” he screams, punching the steering wheel.

I feel for the door handle, and when I find the cool piece of metal, I yank it open and practically spill out of the car. I’m barely clear when he guns the engine, taking off in the middle of the parking lot. The passenger side door isn’t even shut, but he takes a curve ahead so fast that it bangs against the hinges and finally closes.

Trembling, I get to my feet. With Keegan, it’s one step forward, two steps back. He has some sort of mental block on getting close to me. I’m sick of stepping on eggshells around each other. Pulling my phone out, I attempt to call him. It goes straight to voicemail. I’m sure his fancy car has Bluetooth, so he’s avoiding me. The echo of his revving engine reverberates around campus as I walk toward my dorm, dejected.

When he calms down, he and I have to get to the bottom of this. Either he wants to be with me or he doesn’t. I’m sick of waiting around, carefully peeling his layers back one at a time.

I send him a text just inside the vestibule of my dorm.When you find the boy who saved me from drowning, send him my way.

Those innocent, blue eyes. They’re still in there somewhere.

My calf muscles ache as I walk up the steps. It’s been too long since I’ve done any of those ballet moves. I’m sure they were far from perfect, which makes the words Keegan spoke to me even more special. He recognized me through my dance, and he’s right about one thing. When I dance, the most honest, raw parts of me rise to the surface. It’s like bleeding in front of everyone, and the fact that he picked up on that, regardless of the stunt he just pulled, it has to mean something.

A year from now, I’ll probably be cursing myself for still having faith in Keegan Forbes, but when you’ve been in love with a guy for as long as I have, it’s not easy to give up.

When I get to the top of the stairs, I slow. A bouquet of flowers lies in front of my door. My name is scrawled across a note that’s attached to the front. I don’t recognize the handwriting. It’s choppy and staccato as if someone wrote it in a rush.

I pick up the flowers, peering inside at the odd, inner pattern of the paper that holds the flowers together. It’s too shadowy in the hall to see clearly, so I walk inside my room and flick on the light. Placing my purse on the bed, I head toward the dresser to unwrap the array of multi-colored roses. It takes me a moment for my eyes to ascertain what I’m looking at. Once I do, I gasp. The usual, thin sheet of plastic that wraps bouquets is still there, but the pattern comes from a picture of me, spread out on a yacht in my bikini.

Every inch of me is practically blown up. The freckle on my inner shoulder. The dip of my lips. Even a bead of sweat clinging to my chest. My nipples are as hard as pebbles. It’s hard to tell if it’s doctored or if I was actually nipping that much.

Pixelated and zoomed, I’m aghast at what I see in front of me. My every damn curve on display. I rip the picture out and turn it over to find the opposite side has an article about famous celebrity couples. The damn thing is from a paparazzi mag where corporations with too much money pay for pictures they shouldn’t have. Obviously, this picture was taken while I was on my father’s yacht over break.

Stepping back, I try to wrap my head around it all. Why I got these flowers, and why the hell the person stuck a picture of me from a magazine in the bouquet. Like this is some funny joke or something. I let the paper go, needing to put distance between me and it when something falls to the floor with a plop.

I jump back, only to realize it’s not an insect that’s going to scurry toward me. It’s something much different. When the thing finally comes into focus, I throw my hands over my mouth in shock. Dread deadens my limbs.

Holy fuck. Holy fuck, no.

It’s a condom. Ausedcondom.

A squeak pours from my mouth. The scene before me is vomit-inducing. My stomach roils, but I pull it together with anger. Snatching the envelope off the paper, I rip it open with shaking fingers, wondering who’s going to fess up to this. One of these narcissistic assholes I go to school with thinks it’s funny to drop used condoms in bouquets.

However, the interior of the card takes the cake.

I was thinking about you. Getting ready for your big day. Trust me, I’ve memorized every part of your body, Delilah Astor. I’m ready.

Getting ready for me? The condom?

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