Page 7 of Filthy Little Pretties
Donovan
Sixteenth birthday
MY BODY FEELS EFFERVESCENT, ASif all the tiny Moët bubbles I’ve been sipping are vibrating inside of me. Heat rises, climbing my spine as I dance, making tiny droplets of sweat bead on my collarbone and my hair stick to my face with every throw of my head. I shake my hips in rhythm to the bass, tossing my arms to the ceiling.
It feels free and wild.I feel free and wild.
This moment is exactly what I wanted, to throw all my thoughts and fights with my mother out of the window and live. I’m so tired of hearing about the consequences. Because it’s all bullshit. I’ve been forced to live with everyone else’s consequences since I was twelve. Like medicine that’s siphoned down my throat against my will. It’s supposed to make me better but instead makes me fucking sick.
She doesn’t care how messed up my life gets, so long as it doesn’t affect her. The idea of negative consequences is just something she uses when things aren’t in her favor. Like how men have stopped looking at her and are now looking at me. Doesn’t matter that I hate it. She hates it more, because the eyes aren’t on her.
The silk from my emerald-green skirt swishes around the tops of my tan thighs, and with each movement of my hips, I run my hands up the sides of my body. Everything feels so good. I want to die in this moment. My hands drag over my hips as I begin to shake them harder from side to side, uncaring about anything or anyone.
Don’t think. Just feel.
Nothing else matters, including me. But the familiar voice echoes in my head as I dance harder, trying to drown it out with the music that fills the club.
She doesn’t care about me. I’m a pawn she uses against my father and everyone else.
I thrash my head back and forth, letting my hair fly with the kind of abandon I wish I felt as whistles and claps erupt around me. My head lowers to take in all eyes that are on me. Men surround the table that I’ve made my stage, all of them waiting for me to move—to keep on with my show.
This is what she hates. She hates that they all love me—only me.
The irony is I only want her love. But all I’m given is theirs. Men. Staring at me, adoring me, caring about what I’m doing. I can’t help that I’m younger. I can’t stop any of them from wanting me. No matter how much that fucking kills her. No matter how much that makes me her enemy. Her competition. Her legacy.
Strong hands slap the table over and over, keeping time to the music, as my bare feet stay planted on the table, rooting me while I sway to the pulse created by my audience. I tip my head back, feeling my buzz hit me harder, and pull me deeper into the moment.
Pills. Champagne. More pills and more champagne. That’s been the map of my night. My escape route from my mother, her disregard for my birthday and her hatred of me. But the joke’s on her—I hate her back.Or maybe I hate that I wish I could but can’t.
Tonight, though, I will. Tonight, I will hate her so much that it will make up for all of my cowardice.
I twirl around, knowing my skirt will rise and show things I shouldn’t, but I don’t want them to stop cheering, watching, loving me. Laughter escapes my lips, molding and intertwining with the whistles before the sounds of shattering glass echo faintly around me. My head bobs forward lazily, impacted by how drunk I am, to take in the scene, and I have to give it a little shake.
“What’s happening?”
Everything is unfocused and on delay as my eyes adjust too late. I take a step forward, but my feet stumble, and I stagger backward, unbalanced, and fall from the table. Strong arms wrap around me, softening my fall, and stop me from plummeting to the ground.
“Caught you.”
He’s holding me like a bride.He probably already has one of those.
“You did.” I smile, slightly breathless and all too comfortable in my position.
His arms tighten around me, pulling me in closer to his chest, and I let my hand rest on his chest as I lay my head on his shoulder.
“Now, what am I going to do with you?”
His question seems innocent. But that’s the thing about men: they’re never that—innocent. They’ll always accept what I’m willing to forfeit because sex is a war that destroys everyone. The only advantage I have is that I control the rules because I own the prize.
“What do you want to do with me?”
“Things that I shouldn’t.”
He locks his blue eyes on me, licking his lips before they descend onto mine. The taste of deceit is heavy on them, and for a moment, I feel ashamed, but then he looks at me. He stares into my eyes deeply, silencing my thoughts. Because like a desperate soul, I believe the lie—the one that tells me that he sees me, that I’m special, that I’ll be loved.
Donovan
Present Day
