Page 6 of Trick of the Flesh
I squeeze my eyes shut. I remember the girl at the bar last month, her lips soft on mine, her hand tugging at my shirt, begging me to take her back to my dorm. I should have been into it and should have pushed forward. Instead, my mind betrayed me, flashing a face I shouldn’t think of, lips I shouldn’t crave, and eyes that burn hotter than they should.
Miguel.
Always him.
I shoved her away, muttered something about too much to drink, and bolted before I embarrassed myself worse. It’s the same every time. Guy, girl—it doesn’t matter. It never sticks, because behind their faces, his slides in. I open my eyes. My reflection stares back, cheeks flushed, jaw tight.
“You’re pathetic,” I whisper.
The word cuts deeper because I mean it.
Pathetic for wanting him.
Ridiculous for letting him live rent-free in my head.
Pathetic for the heat that coils in my stomach every time he looks at me like he knows.
Because he does.
I slam the water on, splash my face, and try to cool the flushoff my skin. When I lift my head again, droplets run down my neck, soaking the collar of my jersey.
I look like a mess.
Like prey.
The knock on the door makes me jump.
“Occupied,” I call, voice shaky.
Silence.
Then—soft, muffled, but clear enough—a chuckle.
My stomach drops.
I know that laugh.
“Miguel,” I whisper to my reflection.
Another knock, slower this time. A deliberate beat, like a predator scratching at the cage.
I grip the sink until my knuckles whiten. He doesn’t say anything else, just lets the sound of his presence hang heavy through the wood. The footsteps fade, swallowed by the noise of the party.
I sag forward, pressing my forehead to the mirror. My breath fogs up the glass.
He’s fucking with me.
And worse—I’m letting him.
When I finally force myselfback out, the house feels even hotter and heavier, like the walls are closing in. The party has swelled, voices are louder, and music is pounding deeper. Someone’s started a drinking game at the dining table, shots slamming against the wood. Dad’s booming voice bellows encouragement while Celeste laughs too loudly, clearly tipsy.
I can already tell the hangovers in the morning are going to be epic. And nothing’s worse than when your parents are hungover.
No one notices me slipping back in. Blending back into the sea of bodies like I didn’t just have a mental breakdown in the bathroom.
But he does.
Across the room, Miguel still leans against the wall. The mask is tilted now, shadows swallowing half of it, the neon X’s glowing like a threat. His head tilts when he sees me, slow and deliberate.
