Page 16 of Bittersweet Revenge
Dean
Ihardly makeit to the end of the driveway before I’m bent over, heaving and emptying my stomach in the ditch. My throat burns, my stomach cramps. I just had a fucking orgasm with the son of the man who murdered my father. I knew it was going to happen, planned to use whatever means necessary to get close to Tiernan, but the concept and reality are two very different things.
I kissed him.
I liked it.
I betrayed my father.
I clutch my stomach, this time dry heaving as there’s nothing left inside me.
Walking away, I wipe my lips with my wrist, a terrible taste in my mouth, and I wish like hell I had something to rinse with.
I feel numb the whole way back to my dorm, but I guess that’s better than acknowledging the hate I feel for myself right now. Part of me worries I’m already in over my head, but I won’t turn back now. I can’t. What the fuck else do I have in my life other than this? No family, no friends. Just my revenge.
I use my keycard to get into the building and head up to my floor. My roommate, Ollie, is sitting on his bed, reading with a small light on. His side of the room is decorated—posters and photos, quotes on the walls and even on the ceiling so he can look up and, like, fucking read the same shit over and over? It’s a stark contrast to mine, where my bed is made simply and there’s nothing personal in sight.
“Oh hey,” he says. “Have fun?”
I wave him off and head straight to the bathroom. He tries to be nice. I should probably appreciate it because most people don’t give a fuck, but I suck at small talk, and I can’t focus on anything right now except the O’Sheas.
I rinse my mouth, then brush my teeth. One look in the mirror shows Tiernan’s marks all over my neck. I tug my shirt off, and there’s one on my chest too, my pale skin colored purple from his mouth.
I close my eyes, count down from five so I don’t break the mirror with my fist. What the fuck is wrong with me? I could have hooked up with him without letting him leave evidence behind.
When I turn the water on in our small shower, I make sure to get it as hot as possible, strip out of my clothes, and step inside. The heat burns, makes my skin feel like it’s sizzling, but I stay there as long as I can take it, as if the water could remove Tiernan’s marks.
What would my father say if he could see me? If he knew I kissed and touched and enjoyed myself with Tiernan O’Shea.
What would my mom say, who tried so hard to make me happy, to show me the beautiful things in the world. All she cared about was me being as far away from this lifestyle as I could get, yet here I am.
And a part of me is intrigued by it.
After rubbing my body as hard as I can, I get out. My skin is an angry red as I dry off, and then I wrap a towel around my waist and return to the room.
“Holy shit,” Ollie says, eyeing my neck and chest. “You did have fun.”
“Sorry. Puked. I needed to clean up,” I tell him, trying to be normal and apologize for ignoring him earlier.
I pull on underwear beneath my towel, then toss it into my laundry basket.
“Hey…are you okay? No one, like, forced you to do anything?” he asks, his voice soft with concern.
For a moment, I’m struck speechless. What would it have been like if I’d inherited my mom’s kindness? What would it be like to be caring and show concern for others as easily as Ollie does? The concept is so foreign to me, despite growing up with it from her.
Here’s this guy I’m not very nice to, whom I barely know, yet he’s worried about me. Making sure I’m safe and okay. “Um, yeah. I’m good.” I run a hand over my wet hair. “I wanted him to be rough.”
And I did, which is part of the mindfuck I’ve been having all night.
Ollie nods but doesn’t look convinced. I think he’s pre-law, a good boy who’s probably never done anything bad or edgy. I might have just blown his entire world open.
“I’ll clean up my mess in the morning. I feel like shit.”
“Yeah, okay. That’s fine. I’m going to bed anyway. Good night.”
“Night.”
He turns out the light, the room descending into darkness. From the sound of it, Ollie falls asleep almost instantly, but I don’t have that in me. I lie here, looking up at the slivers of white on the ceiling from the light outside the window.
