Just get in the car, just get in the car…
“This is totally inappropriate,” Mr. Behr says. “You could be arrested if you show that to anyone.”
“You could get arrested for face-raping your underage girlfriend in the parking lot,” the guy shoots back. “We’re the one with the blackmail material here. You don’t got shit.”
“She’s not underage,” Mr. Behr protests, throwing open his door. “Seventeen is legal!”
One of the guys fakes a lunge forward, that thing bullies do to make their victims cower while they laugh, and Mr. Behr dives into the front seat while the guys crack up outside.
“That’s it?” I ask in disbelief. This guy is such a pathetic excuse for a human I can’t believe he ever coerced me into a car with him.
He collapses into the front seat and drops his head into his hands. “My career,” he says, sounding shell-shocked and hollow. “My marriage. My family.”
“You’re fucking married?” I ask. “You said you were so lonely since your wifedied, that only I could make you feel alive again. You’re the fucking iceberg lettuce of the world. No, you’re the slimy brown stuff the lettuce turns into while it sits in the bottom drawer of the fridge because even starving people won’t eat it.”
“Harper—”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap. “You don’t deserve to use my name. In fact, don’t ever speak to me again. The only thing you have to say to me is the big fat A-plus on the top of my final. Now drag your limp dick home to your wife and hope to god that even assholes like this are better human beings than you are.”
With that, I get out of the car and slam the door. I don’t get out on the far side like he did. I don’t talk shit, either. I don’t even look at the smart-mouthed kid. I step right up to the guy in the middle, the one holding the evidence. “Give me the phone.”
Even if I were tall, my head would only come up to his shoulder. As it is, my eyes are about level with his pecs. He towers over me, a smirk on his lips, his dark eyes unreadable in the lingering evening. Orangey security lights bathe the parking lot, casting the boys in stark shadows, almost silhouettes against the pale glow.
The tall guy searches my face for a long minute, like he’s looking for something. The rumble of the train in the distance catches his attention before he finds it, and he jerks his chin toward the Range Rover parked fifty feet away, a gesture meant for his two buddies. “Let’s go.”
Without thinking, I grab his arm. “Fuck no,” I say. “You’re not leaving until you erase that picture.”
He gives a little snort of disbelief and jerks his arm easily from my grip, then turns and walks away.
There’s no way I’m letting a bunch of spoiled, rich punks drive off with a picture of me with a dick in my mouth. I jump in front of the guy, my fists raised out of habit.
He pauses, quirking a brow. “What, you think you’re going to hit me?”
The train whistles as it approaches, the sound interrupting our confrontation.
“You can’t actually be interested in that picture,” I say when the sound quiets. “It’s probably not even a clear shot.”
“Sure,” he says, his asshole smirk making me want to punch him just for the fun of it.
“What do you need it for?” I challenge. “If you want to jerk off, look at porn on your phone like everyone else.”
His dark eyes skate over my body, and he gives a little scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Fine, then what do you need it for?” I challenge.
One of his friends comes up, another guy with the same dark hair, though his is shorter on top and shaved close on the sides. A lollipop hangs from the corner of his mouth as he grins at me, but I can’t see his eyes past the reflection of the lights on his glasses. “If you don’t want people taking pictures of you in compromising positions, don’t be in them in a public place,” he says, slinging an arm around the taller guy, the cameraman. His accent tells me they’re more than friends—they’re brothers.
I’ve never had a brother or anyone else to back me up. But that’s okay. I learned not to need anyone. I look out for myself. That’s the way it works on my side of the tracks. You get smart or you get dead. I’ve made it this far on my own, and I sure as fuck don’t need someone telling me what to do, nagging me not to sleep with teachers or play chicken with the trains. I glance at the tracks just fifty feet off, so close I can feel the ground tremble underfoot as the train roars our way.
“Look, you could only want that picture for two reasons,” I say. “Either to ruin lives, which you probably do for kicks, or as blackmail, like you said. If you want money, you’re gonna need to pick on someone closer to your own size in the wallet department because trust me, I have nothing you’d want.”
If anyone’s going to make money off my body, whether it’s a picture of it or the real thing, it’ll be me, not these assholes. And I walked away from that offer earlier today. Even trailer trash has standards.
“I don’t know if I’d say you havenothingwe want,” says the third guy, the loudmouthed one who talked to Mr. Behr. One look at him, and it’s easy to see these assholes all descended from the same genes. They’ve got the whole tall, dark, and handsome thing pegged.
Loudmouth looks me over with more interest than his brothers, his eyes lingering on my tits like they’re a hell of a lot more impressive than they are. I was not blessed—or cursed, depending on your perspective—in the chest department, and I couldn’t care less. Tits have one purpose, and that’s to attract male attention, which I have no use for.
“You think I’m going to fuck you to get the picture back?” I ask.