Page 78 of Our Secrets and Scars

There’s a party tonight to celebrate the end of finals, and though I know Harriet is going too, I have Isla’s strict oath that she won’t leave my side until Holden arrives. He’s catching us over there as soon as he’s finished up at a meeting with his probation officer. It’ll be the first social event we’ve attended together as an established couple, and the knowledge of that swarms my stomach with butterflies.

“Wipe that giddy smile off your face, girl,” Isla laughs. “You and Holden are super cute, but sometimes you make me wanna barf.”

I pick up a slipper from beside my bed and throw it at her. “Like you and Harriet aren’t worse.”

She fluffs her hair and winks at me, then snatches up her purse that’s hanging from the handle of the bedroom door. “You can bitch at me for my double standards on the way, but we’ve really gotta go.”

I look down at the dress I’m wearing, strapless and silver to match the color of Holden’s eyes. For once, I don’t feel self-conscious. Sure, I’ve covered my scars with makeup as usual, but I’m not thinking about them as much as I normally would. I’m not tugging at the hem of the dress or praying to put my pajamas back on. I’m not wishing that I could just stay home. I’m actually looking forward to going out. To finally start living my life again.

Twenty minutes later, Isla and I are stumbling up the front steps to a frat house, both of us unbalanced on our high-heeled shoes.

“God, I’m regretting wearing these already,” I complain, leaning against the wall and rubbing the back of my ankle.

Isla rolls her eyes. “Get enough shots down you and you won’t feel a thing.”

She leads me to the kitchen and sets about sifting through bottles of liquor for whatever poison she’s in the mood for tonight. I watch her in amusement. She has an incredible habit of making herself at home wherever she goes. No niceties or unnecessary social correctness. She’s comfortable enough to help herself to what she wants.

She slams six shot glasses full of clear liquid down in front of us.

“Fuck no.” I shake my head rapidly when she hits me with a devilish smile.

“Fuck yes,” she corrects. “Drink up, bitch. Three each, you ready?”

“Nope.”

She ignores me, taking my hand, licking it, and covering it in salt. Her eyes rise in challenge as she begins the countdown. “Three… two… one…”

I lick off the salt and take the shot.

The taste of cheap tequila burns my throat like I’ve just taken a mouthful of fire mixed with artificial sweetener. It’s so foul, I can’t stop the shudder that wracks through my body. Isla, of course, downs her shot with no outward reaction and laughs when she catches sight of my screwed-up face. She shoves a lime wedge into my mouth, and I sag in relief as the citrusy bitterness counteracts the burn of the spirit.

“Two more.”

I groan in protest but somehow steel myself enough to take the last two shots. By the time I’ve swallowed the final drop, my body is humming with the euphoria that accompanies the early stages of intoxication.

I’m so high off the buzz of finally being a normal college student that I don’t even resist when Isla pulls me onto the makeshift dance floor in the next room.

The music is a rhythm of sex and old-school blues that has my hands automatically winding into my hair and reaching for the sky. My eyes close as my hips sway from side to side, a silly contented smile stretching across my lips.

Hands slide around my waist and tug me into a warm body. I melt into it but freeze almost instantly. Because I feel a hardness against my back. I smell patchouli. I look down at the hands on my body and find them completely bare of tattoos.

It’s wrong.

It’s all fucking wrong.

I try to pull away, but his arms tighten around me. My heart begins to beat in time with my rising panic, my hands growing clammy as fear floods my bloodstream.

“Let go,” I yell, struggling to break free. I’m frantic as I claw at his arms, my sharp nails breaking the skin as I slice them across it.

But a dark, sinister laugh answers me, utterly undeterred. “Keep fighting me, baby,” Owen growls into my ear. “It only turns me on more.”

I feel the evidence of his words twitching against me and swallow down my swelling nausea. He grinds himself against my ass, fingers digging into my waist as his sweaty breath shudders against my neck and turns my stomach.

Holden. I need Holden.

“He’s coming,” Isla yells at me, trying to free me from the vice of Owen’s grip. “Damn, he looks mad.”

Owen tenses behind me momentarily before clinging to me tighter, thrusting against me even harder. His teeth close around my earlobe as he chuckles like the devil into my ear.

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