Well and Truly Fucked

A Piece Of Cake and A Revelation

ASHLEY CROFT'S TO-DO LIST:

BUY PREGNANCY TEST ASAP, DO PROF.CHEZCHOVSKY'S STUPID ESSAY ON STUPID CIVIL WAR, WATER DUMB FUCKING PLANT

He's gorgeous," Amber said, twirling blue strands of hair between her fingers, biting her lower lip. "Like, totally untouchable but also turns me super fucking on."

Ashley didn't need to ask who he was. Adam Warren-Bishop, Amber's newest obsession, the one she'd been drooling over since he walked through the school's grand gates at the start of the semester. But really, it could have been any of the Bishops. They were all drop-dead gorgeous, and that was putting it lightly.

In a school packed with the ultra-elite and filthy rich, the Bishops were in a class of their own: super rich rich. Their family wasn't just loaded, they ran a Mafia organization—a secret everyone knew but nobody dared to speak about. Untouchable wasn't just a turn of phrase when it came to them.

There were four of them: Chase, the oldest, all cold glares and sharp cheekbones; Adam, the brooding heartthrob Amber couldn't stop talking about; Atlanta, the only girl, who somehow managed to be both terrifying and effortlessly chic; and last, but certainly not fucking least, Saint. Saint Bishop, my own personal eye candy. The one I'd never admit I was watching, even though my gaze trailed him every time he walked past like a dog after a bone.

Chase and Adam were twin brothers, alike in every way but looks. Where Chase was all lean muscle and sharp features, Adam was softer, more approachable—if you ignored the dangerous gleam in his eyes. They were cousins to Atlanta and Saint, and together, the four of them formed an unbreakable pack. They ate together, drank together, partied, smoked, and got stoned together. Always moving in sync, always untouchable.

Chase and Adam were notorious for getting around, their names whispered in locker rooms and giggled about at parties. Everyone knew not to expect more than a night or two with either of them. They didn't stick around, but no one seemed to mind. It was enough just to have their attention for a fleeting moment.

Atlanta, on the other hand, was on a completely different level. Undeniably beautiful, she was so off-limits that the idea of a boy even talking to her was laughable. Why? Saint Bishop. Her brother. And the one thing scarier than being ignored by him was being noticed. Saint didn't just protect Atlanta—he owned the space around her, made it clear that no one dared to come close.

Her last and only boyfriend had learned that the hard way. He ended up in the ICU, and when he finally left town for New York, it was with a crushed right ball and a reconstructed nose and jaw. Saint had made sure no one ever made the mistake of getting too close to his sister again.

And then there was the secretive, seductive Saint. In Ashley's opinion, the most gorgeous of them all. She smirked at the memory—the party three months ago. His lips had been biting hers, his tongue wrestling with hers, his hands tangled in her hair. She'd moaned into his mouth, panting, riding until her body went numb. 

When it was time to smoke more skunk, they'd shared a blunt, then repeated the cycle again until the sky bled pink and morning crept in. By the time she opened her eyes, he was gone. Only the scent of his cologne lingered, clinging to her hair, her body, her thong, her minidress—everywhere.

They hadn't spoken since. Not a word, not even a glance. It was like it never happened, like it was some fevered dream. But Ashley knew better. The dull ache in her hips the next morning and the bruises on her neck said otherwise.

And she'd never told a soul.

Because Ashley Croft was a slut, sure, but she wasn't stupid. Saint Warren-Bishop was off-limits. Completely untouchable.

A manicured hand waved in front of her face. "Earth to bimbo. Ashley, babe, snap out of it. Adam Bishop is hot, yes or no?"

I nodded, trying to shake the memory of Saint from my mind. "Def, don't even need to ask, babe. I'm all for it. Imagine what he's packing down there."

Amber scoffed, rolling her eyes. "You're for anything though, you crazy whore."

I giggled, blowing her a kiss and raising a perfectly plucked brow. "What can I say?" I teased, before pointing with an acrylic nail at the fat piece of cake sitting in front of her, untouched. "Are you gonna eat that, or can I?"

Amber looked at the cake like it had personally offended her. "Ugh, take it. I swear it's going straight to my ass."

"Thank you, darling," I cooed, sliding the plate closer with a wicked grin. Cake and boys—the only two things worth indulging in.

Amber raised her eyebrows, shaking her head as she pushed the plate toward me. "Surprised you want it though . I got it but then used that new app to scan it—amount of calories in that thing, ugh."

I shrugged, stabbing at the cake with my fork. Through mouthfuls, I mumbled, "I'm so fucking hungry all the time. My leather jeans won't even zip up now, and I've got a muffin top. Spandex for me. Gonna have to diet before bikini season."

Amber smirked, pulling out her compact and reapplying lipstick in a slow, deliberate swipe. "You've put on a little weight, yeah," she said, eyeing me in the reflection. "But your tits look fan-fucking-tastic. Ass too, babe."

I couldn't help but laugh, taking another indulgent bite of cake. "Silver linings, right?"

I smiled, wiping away the crumbs and sweeping my platinum hair behind my back. Pulling out my compact, I checked my reflection. Makeup flawless, fake lashes still intact, nose piercing right side up—good to go. "It's probably just weight gain from my period, you know? Always fluctuates a little then."

But as I reached for my handbag, shimmying my miniskirt down so my ass cheeks weren't completely on display, a sudden realization hit me like a punch to the gut. I hadn't had my period since... well, since... shit. It had been three or four months—right around the time me and Saint Bishop had spent that night together at the party.

The weight gain, the clothes not fitting, the constant hunger... And what if the throwing up wasn't from that rancid fish the cook made, but from... something else?

I froze, my stomach flipping in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

Oh, fuck. I needed a pregnancy test. ASAP.