I don’t know if that’s because of the Bishops or if Tiffany’s just worried that I’ll kick her ass again if she says something.
“Stop staring,” she scoffs.
“Stop looking so hideous,” I respond, crossing my arms over my chest. She already thinks I’m a bitch and I’d rather be seen as that than a push over. I’ve laid down, took the hate, let the Bishops bully me, but I’m done.
I don’t want their hate anymore. I want something else.
“Awe, is Harlow jealous?” Banks chimes in, twisting around in his seat. My entire body lights up, ripples of electricity dance across my skin at the deep baritone of his voice. The coldness in his blue eyes reminds me of the ocean the night that I fell off the boat, cold, and unforgiving. Lifeless and impossibly deep.
“Not jealous,” I lie, because let’s be honest, I am jealous. “Mostly angry, but also, I feel sorry for you, that you had to stoop so low and hook up with someone like this,” I lift my chin to Tiffany. “It’s sad that you’re trying to replace me, as if she ever could, but whatever, she can have my sloppy seconds.”
Those cold depths of his flicker with fire, and his chiseled jaw turns to stone, he looks like he wants to snap me in two and knowing that makes me sit up a little straighter in my chair. It makes me a little happier, knowing that I still have some type of hold on him, even if it’s not the kind I’m really after.
“Watch it, Harlow, my brothers and I can bring you great pleasure, but we can also bring you great pain.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to respond, the professor walks in a second later, and Banks turns around in his chair to face the front of the class. But I don’t miss the warning in his voice. He wants to scare me, but the only thing that scares me is losing my chance with them.
Chapter Twelve
The alarm on my phone goes off, the annoying ringing letting me know my laundry is dry. Putting my kindle down, I grab my spoon and chuck it into the sink and put the ice cream tub back into the freezer. Most people my age are out partying on a Friday night, but me, I would much rather be reading, and chilling out in the dorm. It would be nice if Shelby was here, but they have some really important artist coming to town, so she’s stuck working at the art studio all weekend. It’s whatever though, as long as she is happy, then I’ll be happy for her.
I leave my dorm and head downstairs, my slipper covered feet making hardly any noise against the steps as I head outside to the side building. It houses the student laundry. If my mom ever found out I was doing my own laundry she would be appalled. I didn’t wash my first load until a few weeks ago, and even though it was kind of a nightmare at first, for both Shelby and me. I’m proud to say that I’ve kept the accidental dye jobs and bleach spots to a minimum.
Its past ten and most students are out partying, which leaves the dorm area quiet and empty. I make my way around the building in the darkness of the night. Only two street lights illuminate the sidewalk as I hurry around the building. I’m probably imagining it, but I have this weird feeling that someone is watching me. Like a sixth sense, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as a shiver runs over me.
The feeling doesn’t ease up, even when I finally walk into the communal laundry room that holds about ten washers and ten dryers. The space is completely empty, silent. It almost seems deserted.
Scurrying across the room I grab my basket off the top of the dryer and set it on the floor.
I open the dryer and start grabbing my clothes, stuffing them into the basket without folding them, because who the hell has time to fold. It isn’t until I grab the second handful that I notice something black on one of my white T-shirts.
Plucking the T-shirt from the basket I lift the fabric and stare at the front of the shirt in horror. Written there in large black block letters is the word SLUT. What the fuck? Shaking my head in disbelief, that someone would even be that immature I pull out another handful of clothes. I pray that’s the end of the cruelty, but I should know better. One of my favorite sweaters has been destroyed. I cringe when I see the word WHORE written into the pink fabric, streaks of black ink bleed into the shirt and I know I’ll have to toss it out. I know it’s just a shirt, but it’s mine, it belonged to me.