Page 59 of Jagger
Jesus, what?
I screw my face up and turn away, but not before the girl gasps, "Oh my God, it's Molly!"
Then the man turns to look at me, and my world falls apart.
Jagger.
The slicked back black hair, the emerald eyes. The stunned silence between us. He's wearing a white shirt, and chinos pool around his ankles—I'm in a sparkly dress and stupidly high heels.
"I'm such a big fan," the girl says from her place on the floor, peering at me from around Jagger's legs.
Jagger doesn't hold my gaze. Instead, he reaches down to lift his pants back around his waist. He turns and walks closer to me, my fingers still wrapped around the handle, my breath prisoner in my chest.
I hate the way he looks at me, like I'm everything to him, yet nothing all at the same time. My skin tingles as his eyes trace over me, but there's a sadness there that I can't ignore.
I want to tell him to get fucked, to leave, anything, but when he reaches up to cup my face, I let him.
Tears prick my eyes.
I've spent so long hating him.
"I'd keep away from him if I were you," I tell the girl, forcing myself to back away.
He drops his gaze but says nothing.
I back out of the room, wishing he'd say something.
I find the restroom and sigh with relief as I do my business. I can't believe Jagger is here.
Jagger is here.
It's surreal—I haven't seen or heard from him since he sent flowers to me in the hospital a year ago. I'd asked him to leave me alone, and he had. But seeing him now…it brought it all back. Time heals nothing, it just makes it harder to remember. But I remember—and I hate him for what he did to me. Most of all, I hate that after all this time… I still want to know why. Why did he rape me when he could've had me? That kiss in the school basement… I've still not had a kiss like that since. I've never wanted anyone like I'd wanted Jagger at that moment, and the stupid fucking description he'd given of draping me in diamonds.
Get a grip. He raped you.
The thought should sober me, but it doesn't. I'm too clouded with champagne and cocaine to think straight, that's what it is. But a part of me wants to confront him—to demand to know whyhe did it like that—with Lawson there, when he could've had it all.
Tears fill my eyes, and a lump forms in my throat. A door crashes open, and a couple fall into the stall beside me, moans of passion filling the restroom. I close my eyes and tidy myself up before heading out of the room, clearing my throat.
Could Jagger have had it all? Really? Because I don't recall ever thinking that. Maybe it's the coke fucking with my memory, because Jagger and me?—
"There you are. I've been looking all over for you." I stiffen as Antonio's voice creeps up on me.
"Antonio," I say, already defeated. "I went to the restroom." I turn to see the man I'm dating grinning at me like he's not at all pissed off that he couldn't find me.
His dark eyes glitter, but it's clear he's had more coke than I've had, if that's even possible.
"You looked so good on that yacht today," he tells me, his fingers dancing up my arm. "I want to fuck you in that suit."
My mind goes blank.
Suit? Oh, the swimsuit.
I wrinkle my nose at the thought of wearing it ever again, and Antonio frowns.
"No? You don't want that?"
Oh, God. Antonio looks wounded, like I've told him he disgusts me.
