Page 6 of Deviant Obsession

"No wonder she looks so uptight."

"Probably saving herself for marriage."

"Bet she's never even been kissed."

Dean leans impossibly closer again, his cologne making my head spin. "Nothing wrong with being innocent, baby. I'd be happy to show you a thing or two. I’m sure I could blow your mind."

Something snaps inside me. All the humiliation and anger crystallize into a sharp edge of defiance. I meet his gaze head-on, voice steady despite my racing heart.

"I’m not innocent," I grit out. "And I am definitely not a virgin."

His eyes flash with challenge. "No? Could've fooled me."

"I don't care what you think."

"Then prove it." He's moved so close now I can feel the heat radiating off his broad body. "Show me what you can do."

The chant behind him starts low but quickly builds: "Virgin! Virgin! Virgin!"

My vision blurs with angry tears. This is exactly why I hate parties, and why I prefer the safety of home and my books. At least research literature doesn't try to humiliate you for sport.

"I amnota virgin!" The words explode from me before I can stop them, echoing in the sudden quiet. Even the music seems to have dimmed, or maybe that's just the blood rushing in my ears. "You're all disgusting," I spit out. "Why would I have any interest in entitled jerks like you who think public humiliation is a fun Friday night activity?"

Something morphs then in Dean's expression, and it softens slightly—a crack in his arrogant facade. For just a moment, I catch a glimpse of something else beyond the bravado. Regret maybe. But then his friends whoop and holler at my outburst, and the mask slides back into place.

I don't wait to hear what else he has to say. Ducking under his arm, I shove through the crowd, not caring who I bump into. Someone's drink sloshes over my arm, but I barely notice. I just need to get out.

The night air hits me like a slap when I burst through the front door. My lungs burn as I gulp it down, trying to steady myself though I haven’t had even a drop of alcohol. The porch is mercifully empty now. I try not to convince myself that everyone must have migrated inside to watch my humiliation.

That’s what I get for simply just walking in? Unbelievable. I’m never going out again.

Stumbling a little down the steps, I catch my reflection in a parked car's window. Nat's careful makeup job is ruined, black streaks painting my cheeks where I didn't even realize I'd started crying. I look exactly like what I am…

A girl who doesn't belong here.

My hands shake as I pull out my phone, typing out a quick text to Nat.

Me: I'm going home. Stay if you want.

The message sends just as I hear the front door open behind me. I don't turn around, but I can feel his presence on the porch. The weight of Dean's stare burns between my shoulder blades.

For a moment, the only sound is the muffled bass from inside and the chirp of crickets. I wait for another taunt, another jab, but nothing comes. When I finally risk a glance over my shoulder, I catch his expression in the porch light. His brows are furrowed, and lips parted like he wants to say something.

But his friends appear behind him, clapping him on the back and drawing him into their orbit again. Whatever he might have said dies on his tongue.

I kick off Nat's torture devices masquerading as shoes, letting the rough sidewalk scratch against my bare feet as I start the long walk home. The dress that felt maybe a little sexy an hour ago now feels like a grotesque costume I can't wait to shed.

My phone buzzes—probably Nat asking what happened, or insisting I come back—but I ignore it. The street is eerily quiet this late, streetlights casting long shadows that seem to reach for me like grasping fingers. The shiver that wracks my bones has nothing to do with the mild temperature.

Every car that passes makes my heart jump, wondering if it's Dean or his friends coming to continue their fun. But they never do. I'm left alone with my thoughts and my shame, heels dangling from one hand while the other wraps around my middle like I can physically hold myself together.

By the time I reach our apartment, my feet are filthy and probably scraped up, but I barely feel it. I just want to shower off this night, crawl into bed, and pretend none of it ever happened.

But as I fumble with my keys, Dean's face flashes in my mind again. It’s not the cruel smirk or the predatory grin, but that last glimpse of something else. Something that looked almost like he wanted to apologize.

I shake it off. It doesn't matter what he might have wanted to say. Guys like him don't apologize. They just move on to their next target, leaving destruction in their wake without a second thought.

I’ll be happy to never see him again.

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