Page 11 of Envy

I freeze. My eyes widen as Luke turns, calling out. “Hey, Garret.”

I stop breathing. Garret’s gaze locks onto me. Cassie? Forgotten.

Luke grins. “I wanna bring a friend this weekend.”

I wait for Garret’s rebuttal. For him to say, “Hell no.” For him to humiliate me. But instead?—

Garret smiles. Like a Cheshire cat. “Sure,” he says, too smooth. “Bring lots of condoms.” He lets the words sink in. “And a bathing suit.”

How about a knife to cut off your dick?

My stomach churns. Garret is inviting me. Not because he wants me there. But because he wants me to see. Sex. Money. Drugs. His world. And I just walked right into it.

Friday arrives, and I have no intention of showing up at Garret’s party. Invited or not, he’d have to kidnap me to get me there.

John owns my weekends and after that, they consist of recuperating. Of trying to piece together what happened the last time he forced me to do whatever he wanted. Half the time, Idon’t remember. The drugs ensure that. Except when it’s just John and me. Then, he prefers me sober. He wants me to remember him. And only him.

Those nights are the worst. When he calls me his good girl. When he pets me after he’s done. When he whispers how he loves me. Those are the nights I cry the hardest in my sleep. If it were possible, I’d take a scalpel and scrape every trace of him from my mind.

I walk into the library, trying to forget the weekend is almost here. The girl behind the desk looks up.

“Hi, I’m interested in signing up for tutoring.”

She nods and moves around the desk, looking for something. I take the moment to scan the library. It reminds me of a cathedral, except instead of saints and angels, gargoyles perch on the tops of shelves. I inhale deeply. Books. Old wood. Ink. A scent so unlike John’s house.

I’ve been meaning to check some out. To get better.

I struggle in class. Because I was never homeschooled. John and Mary lied. I can barely spell, write, or solve equations. John must have paid off the teachers because my grades were low.

I’m here because I need a tutor. If I don’t keep up, Kenyan will kick me out.

And I’ll end up back in John’s house.

She places a clipboard on the counter. “Here you go.”

I scan the names. The only available tutor is A.

“Who’s A?”

She shrugs. “Most tutors are hybrid students. This one just goes by A, I guess.”

I didn’t even know Kenyan had hybrids. Doesn’t matter. I write my name, circle a time, and push the clipboard back.

“You’re all set,” she says. “Tutoring is at the table behind the computers. If you’re ten minutes late, you forfeit your time. Three no-shows, and you’re out for the semester.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

I drift toward the literature section. I need a book on the Renaissance era for history class. I scan the shelves, fingers tracing the spines. I pull a book when?—

Thump.

A grunt. I freeze. Heavy breathing.

Slowly, I move to the next aisle. My stomach drops.

Muscles taut as a rope as a strong arm braces against the top shelf.

Below him?—

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