His tongue trails from the side of my chin to the corner of my mouth. I'm frozen on spot, barely breathing. When he pulls away, his eyes are the same shimmering silver I had seen the other night. My breathing spikes, and his eyes dart to my mouth. B...
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— 17 —
When we pull up to my house, Calvin gets out to help me down, but Trent beats him to it, hopping over the edge and lending me his hand.
"Wow, Trent, you're being personable," Calvin notes, grinning. "Thought you were into girls like Nikki—you know, the ones that change their minds every ten seconds so you don't have to put up with them for too long?"
"Ha! Coming from the Casanova himself," Nikki retaliates from the driver's seat. Leon has his arms around her waist, but if he didn't, I'm sure she'd be hanging out the window. "Say it again, and we'll see how you get home, man-whore."
"Whoops. Caught~"
"Thanks," Trent says gruffly under Calvin's loud voice.
I smile. "No problem." Louder, I say, "I'll see the rest of you idiots tomorrow."
"Idiots?" Nikki repeats. "Excuse you? Don't confuse me with the hound dog, please. I'm clearly the queen."
"Yeah, Queen Indecisive," TJ cracks.
"That's it!" she shouts. "The next person who says anything about my personality is getting my foot up their ass!"
I laugh, turning on my heel. "Have fun~" I throw over my shoulder, taunting.
"Hey, you shut up too! And try not to kill your sister!" Nikki yells back.
As always, they don't drive off until I get inside. Thankfully, the house is dark, which means Cassadee is either asleep or out. I don't care which one—she'd sleep through an earthquake if she wanted to, so it's not like she'll hear if Darestin shows up—it'd just be nice to have a peaceful morning.
Letting out a breath, I head upstairs for a shower. It's been a night full of fighting and running, all in make-up, a skin-tight dress, and a wig, so I feel disgusting. The dress feels matted against me with sweat, and stickiness from the tape used to keep the wig on is starting to irritate my skin.
Turning the water up to scorching, the steam fills the room as I hunt down one of my dad's old shirts and a pair of boxers. When I get what I want, I strip down, peeling the dress off before stepping under the spray. Instead of the burning pain I expect, the water is warm, easy. It kneads the muscles in my back like always, but it doesn't hurt.
What the—
Nothing you own is strong enough to hurt you.
He meant everything?
Angry, I shut off the water, ripping open the curtains to yank a towel down. I wrap the towel around me and roughly clear some steam from the mirror, staring at my reflection.
There's nothing wrong with me, per se. If anything, I look better than I have in... well, ever. My skin is smooth, practically poreless. There isn't a single blackhead, no discoloration, nothing. I don't have scars anymore—even the ones on my thighs are gone—and the birthmark on my hip is wiped clean. My brown eyes are bright, lively, and there aren't any bags under them even though I didn't get much sleep last night. My hair's light, full, healthy. The breakage and split ends that were there thanks to bleaching and dying it are virtually gone now.
