“I don’t think pillow fights happen while naked,” I point out. “Too much would be flopping around.”
“I feel like I should be offended,” he says. “But I’ll settle for underwear and a T-shirt, no bra.”
I gesture to my chest. “Again, flopping.”
“Those tiny things won’t flop,” he says. “They bounce. I’ll show you.”
“No promises.”
“Then you can’t braid my hair,” he says, shaking his head solemnly.
“A real tragedy.”
Low, distant thunder sounds somewhere in the distance, and Colt jerks his chin toward the parking lot. “So, how ‘bout it, Appleteeny? You coming over? My parents aren’t home.”
He wiggles his brows, as if this should entice me. Sometimes I forget people have functioning parents and actually worry about that stuff. I only care about my mom being home if she and one of her tweaker boyfriends are going to be banging the headboard against the wall. But then, it’s not like I ever bring friends over, anyway.
I take one more look at the building and then turn away, tucking my thumbs into the straps on my backpack. It was one thing to walk back in after blowing Royal. Yeah, the Dolces made sure everyone saw them drag me down there, so I’d be publicly humiliated when I walked out. They wanted the audience, either to show me that no one would stop them or to show everyone else that no one is exempt from the royal treatment, as Duke called it. Even so, if half of what I’ve heard is to be believed, just about every girl at Willow Heights has had a Dolce dick in her mouth at some point. Hell, most of girls would drop to their knees and open wide if they got the chance to do it again.
But walking into a school where everyone has seen me sucking gross old, wrinkled dick? That’s different. There’s no way I’ll ever be invisible now. This week has proven it. I’ll always be the school slut, the scandal, a disgusting freak. It’s a weird sex thing, so everyone’s obsessively fascinated with it. It’s a miracle I lasted until Friday, since the video got leaked on Tuesday.
No, it didn’t get leaked. That makes it sound like no one is responsible.
The Dolces leaked it. On purpose.
By the time we reach the parking lot, I’m pissed again. Fat, cold drops of rain begin to pelt our shoulders as we hurry across.
“Hey, hold up,” I say, grabbing Colt’s elbow. I pluck the keys from his hand and make a little detour toward the primo parking spots at the very front of the lot where three black cars sit—a sleek little Tesla, a Range Rover, and a giant Hummer that I’d say was compensating for something if I hadn’t already seen Duke’s dick and could testify that he has nothing to compensate for.
“What the—” Colt protests, but I’m already winding one of the keys off his ring. I take the path between the Rover and the Tesla, a reckless thrill rising in my chest as I dig the keys into the paint on either side of me and stride down the length of the cars. I close my eyes for a second, holding onto the sheer satisfaction of the moment. That’s some ASMR level shit right there.
I step past the cars, wind the extra key back onto Colt’s keyring, and toss them back to him.
“Whoops,” I say, a spring in my step that wasn’t there a minute ago. I hop up into Colt’s Denali, barely registering the cold drops of rain running down my scalp, and toss my bag onto the back seat.
“You’re fucking crazy, Teeny,” he says, hopping up in the driver’s side. The wipers go on, and my heart does a little skip when I see someone standing outside the school. But it’s just someone buzzing in late, not a Dolce coming to murder me.
I turn on the radio, spinning the dial until I hear the aptly timed “November Rain.” I turn it up, but Colt jabs the button, shutting it off altogether. He frowns at me, resting one arm along the steering wheel. “Harper, the Dolces are dangerous. Not in some cute way that’s a game.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I ask, glaring back at him. “What am I supposed to do, Colt? Get on my knees and blow them every time they ask? Roll over and die? Look at me. I have nothing. I am nothing. I fight dirty not because it’s the only way to win, but because it’s the only way I can fight back, period.”
“You can’t fight them,” he says quietly. “Believe me, I know. You’re one girl. They took down my whole family—the most powerful family in town. And it wasn’t a small family, either. What do you think they’ll do to one person?”
“Here’s the thing, though,” I say. “You think I’m playing to win. I don’t care about winning. I care about surviving.”
“If you know you’ll lose either way, why make it worse on yourself by retaliating?” he asks. “If you do what they want, yeah, they’ll have their fun with you, but they’ll get bored if you don’t fight back, and they’ll leave you alone.”
“Like you?” I ask.
He just stares at me, his jaw hard, his lips sealed.
“After they took everything from you, they left you alone,” I say. “After they took your football career, your finger, your girlfriend, your friends…”
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” His voice is hard, and I know I’m pissing him off.
“Tell me it’s worth it.”
We stare at each other a long moment, and then he shifts into drive, and we leave the parking lot, the wipers sluicing water from the windshield with each stroke.