Page 7 of Deliverance

Anger rages inside me, and I don’t even think, I just react. My hand winds back, slapping her across the face as hard as I can. Shockingly, she doesn’t even flinch. For a moment, I question if I even made contact. The reddening of her cheek tells me I definitely did, though.

“Feel better?” Bartlett goads. “You slapped me, and yet Asher Putnam still doesn’t want you. You’re pathetic,” she scoffs with a shake of her head. Tatiana’s hand gently cups her face as she assesses the damage.

Her words are like barbs, stabbing at my every insecurity in front of a room full of people. In my own fucking house. A million warring emotions fill me, and all I can muster up the courage to do is head to my room. Shoving through people, I grab a bottle of tequila in someone’s hand, ripping it away as I lift it to my lips. The sharp taste burns as I continue gulping it down all the way up the stairs.

By the time I make it back to my room, I barely get the door shut before I throw the bottle against the wall and fall to the floor, sobbing. I hate that she’s right. Look at me, I’m beyond pathetic. Sitting here crying myself to sleep over a guy that treats me like shit, fully knowing I’m going to come crawling back for more. I hate myself for it. I hate it here. I hate…everything.

Chapter Three

Maggie

I’m eating the french toast I made the next morning when I hear a door open upstairs. You know, you’d think for a mansion of this size you wouldn’t be able to hear every footstep anyone takes throughout it. Quite the opposite, though. Everything echoes. Every word, every step and every breath. That’s how I know the exact moment that Bridgette turns the corner.

The place is trashed, littered with beer bottles, cups and god knows what else. I already called the Brenton’s maid and requested that they come in today, and they told me it wasn’t a problem. Being a spoiled rich kid has its perks, I guess.

I hear Bridgette’s steps falter when she sees me, but I don’t stop what I’m doing. I pretend she’s not even there. If there is anything I’ve learned about people like her, it’s that they thrive on a reaction. No reaction, they don’t feel the need to attack. Although there are far scarier things in the world than Bridgette Brenton, I don’t feel like getting into a fight this morning. At least, not until I’ve finished my breakfast.

Slowly, Bridgette continues walking as she moves towards the coffee pot and pours herself a cup. I take a sip of my own and look up from my plate to watch her. Whoa. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the perfect put together bitch look like such a mess.

Her hair is disheveled and not in a sexy, intentional way. Deep, dark circles line under her eyes, emphasized by some dried mascara tear streaks. Her red lipstick is smeared around her mouth, and her eyes lack the usual fire she holds.

“You look like shit,” I say simply.

She hmphs under her breath before nodding and taking a sip of coffee. It’s probably stupid to feel sympathy for her, she’s the fucking worst. Just look at how she behaved last night. Fuck her.

Yet, some stupid sympathetic piece of me feels bad for her, and I feel myself letting out a small sigh.

“There is a little more french toast if you want,” I say as I gesture towards the stack I made.

I always make too much, but I’d rather have too much than too little.

She looks at it, her nose wrinkling, but I know that look in her eyes. It’s desire. She wants it, hell, her body probably needs it, but something in her mind won’t let her have it.

“You know, it’s okay to have a carb from time to time. I promise it won’t kill you,” I say.

She turns to face me and shrugs a shoulder. “All it takes is a few pounds. It’s a slippery slope from there.”

I can’t help but huff as I shake my head.

“You’re hot, and you know it. You definitely don’t need to be worrying about your weight.”

She frowns for a second but seems to be at a loss for words before she slowly moves to the cabinet. Grabbing a plate, she dishes herself a single piece of french toast. I watch as she takes a seat at the kitchen island beside me, and when she’s settled, I push the butter and syrup towards her.

Hesitantly, she looks at it, and I roll my eyes.

“C’mon, I’m sure you’ll probably just puke it up in twenty minutes, anyway.”

Surprisingly, that pulls a barely there smile out of her, and she begins spreading the butter and pouring the syrup.

“Tequila,” Bridgette murmurs like it’s her worst enemy.

“Ah, it’s a bitch.” I commiserate.

She makes a noise of agreement as she takes her first bite. We eat in silence for a few moments before she speaks, so softly I almost miss it.

“I’m sorry.”

Turning my head, I watch her but don’t say anything. Her blue eyes rise to mine as she lets out a deep breath and runs her hands through her hair.

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