Page 93 of Distorted Obsession

A crack on my ass, thankfully, yanks me from the clusterfuck situation I’ve found myself in. “Who wouldn’t? It’s such a fine one,” Paisley giggles.

“You two are going to make me gag on all the sweetness happening here,” Ayana jokes, but then runs around and plants a smack to each of our asses. Then, she runs when Cammy darts after her.

“Uh-uh… nope. Yuh nuh get fi smacketh mi ass witout me slapping fi yuh,” Cammy shouts, her Jamaican accent more pronounced.

I smile, grateful to have this moment—I never let myself have more than that.

You don’t even deserve to have those.

I push back on my negative self-talk. I’ve been doing better at challenging the voice in my head. I’m just unsure if that’s from my sessions with Dr. Singh ormy sessionswith Colter and Cooper.

Luckily, I haven’t had any recent episodes as bad as the one after the game. It’s almost like since I signed the contract, my subconscious has decided to give me a break.

“I got her,” I shout, wrapping my arms around Ayana as she passes, determined to enjoy my time with my friends. She squirms, laughing and trying to escape my hold.

“Oh look, if it isn’t the murderer and her cronies,” Candace squawks, and I instantly drop my arms—the mood officially ruined. She’s flanked by Tricia and two other girls whose names I can’t be bothered to remember.

See, you don’t deserve it.That thought sobers me, my smile quickly melting from my face.

“Look, if it isn’t desperate-for-attention-so-she-grovels-at-the-feet-of-anyone-who’ll-throw-her-a-bone,” Jade hisses, crossing her arms.

Massaging my temples, I weigh whether I have the patience for any of these idiots. Since Portia’s death, this group has been going through an internal civil war to determine who will reign supreme.

I quickly decide I’m not in the mood for their bullshit antics—not when I’m having such a great week, even if I’m still being orgasm denied. I curse Colt and Coop for this itch beneath my skin that only they can fucking scratch.

“I’m out,” I announce, prepared to ignore the peanut gallery, but four idiots block my path.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Candace barks like the bitch she is.

Clenching my fist, I hiss, “Anywhere but here.”

“Well, that’s too bad because we didn’t excuse you.”

Half-dressed, my friends come to my side. “It’s great that she doesn’t need your permission,” Paisley snaps.

Tricia’s lips part, but Jade cuts her off. “If you come back with ‘but she does need our permission,’ I won’t be held liable for smacking the predictability out of you.”

“Let me by,” I demand, gritting through clenched teeth.

“What? Don’t like being called what you are?” Candace taunts. “Mur-der-er.” She smirks as she singsongs the word. “You killed your best friend, and yet somehow, you feel entitled to walk the same sidewalks as we do.”

I dig my nails into my palms. She’s goading me. I know it in my bones. They want my tears, but they can’t have them today.

“Fuck off,” I growl. Then I shoulder past her and Tricia and head for the locker room exit. Just as the door swings closed, I hear Tricia shout, “I hope you can keep up your fake confidence forever.”

There’s more indistinguishable shouting between those bitches and my friends, but I ignore it, choosing instead to head back to my dorm. My bed is calling me.

A smirk grows on my face as I realize for the first time since arriving at Groveton that some of my old fierceness is peeking through. I give myself a mental high-five, ignoring everything and everybody until I’m nearly in front of my building.

Sighing, I round the corner as my bones cry for a soak in the tub and a deep tissue massage. “Shower, eat, and then sleep,” I mumble the checklist out loud, wishing I could shower from my bed. Someone should seriously figure out a way to make that a possibility.

I’m mulling over what that would entail when I notice some papers posted on the door that weren’t there when we left for practice. Inching closer, the image on the poster comes into view, and I freeze.

I shake my head frantically. “It… it… it c… can… can’t be,” I mutter, and even to my ears it sounds like gibberish.

My clothes feel restrictive, like a cage preventing me from escaping.

Why would they have these?

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