Page 207 of Broken by my Bully
Not that she’ll ever hear me fucking say it.
Just have to get her out of my system, then I’ll be golden.
I slide a finger behind my collar, trying to pull it away from my neck.
I’m not into all this fancy shit.
I like nice clothes, because anything’s better than the patched, threadbare hand-me-downs I got growing up. But this tux is a fucking nightmare.
And places like this country club don’t get me hard.
It’s the wallpaper.
You couldn’t pay me to walk through this place on acid. If they put this stuff on dollar bills, counterfeiters will be fuming.
Maybe that’s why they have it. It reminds them of money.
It’s the same shade of green.
Luckily there are so many people jammed into this ballroom, it’s hard to see the walls. But it’s unavoidable on the way to the restroom, and I’m going to need to go soon after all this champagne.
And the musicsucks. Who still listens to Chopin?
“Hey, man. Your brother’s looking for you.”
I turn to Austin, sipping at my champagne glass as I study his red curls. They look tighter tonight. Jesus, is thereproductin there? My mouth twists, and I’m not sure if it’s for his hairstyle or the champagne. Don’t like this bubbly shit, but some alcohol is better than none alcohol.
“Tell him you couldn’t find me.”
“It’sabout the party.”
“Fuck.” I drain the awful champagne and hand Austin the glass. “Where is he?”
“Out front by the donation boxes.”
Damn. That’s a lot of wallpaper to cover.
But I grit my teeth and bear it, because the only reason I’m here isbecauseof the party, and if it’s gone belly up, then I’m fucking off.
Not that I really want to go back to my dorm room, either.
Since last night, I’ve been staring at Haven’s Activity Log, trying to get myself to open it. I keep moving it around, wishing in some weird way that I’d drop it and it would just flip open to a page, and I’d be forced to read it.
Which is pathetic, because of course I want to read it.
That’s the whole reason I took it.
But as soon as I brought it into my room and set it down on the corner of my bed, I just stared at it.
Because it’s Pandora’s Box.
Once I’ve read what’s in there, there’s no forgetting what it says.
I know I’m in there.We’rein there.
She probably wrote every fucked up thing we did to each other. Every line we crossed. Each time I made her cry. Each time she made me hard.
What if she wrote about the maple tree?
