Page 31 of Becoming Us
The sting of rejection hit hard.
“No, hotshot. I don’t do jailbait.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I muttered, trying to hide the bitterness.
“Don’t be like that.” He leaned in, fingers twisting in my hair, his lips brushing my ear. That skin-crawling sensation crept back—but everything was too numb. I didn’t care. Was that it? Had it kicked in?
“I’d fuck you in an instant, Noah. We can revisit the idea in a couple of years.”
He stepped back, that smug smirk still plastered across his face.
“Whatever.”
Pocketing the bag, I hopped off the counter, trying to move past him. But his arm shot out, blocking my way.
I eyed him carefully. He wasn’t much taller than me, but something about the move felt threatening. I needed to get out of this bathroom.
Heart hammering, I tried to push his arm aside. He didn’t budge.
“Let me leave.”
He gave me that head shake again.
“I was jailbait three seconds ago.”
“You are,” he said slowly. “But what’s wrong with a little taste?”
Before I could even process what he meant, he shoved me back against the wall. I nearly slipped, but he caught me, held me in place—and then he kissed me.
No—he crashed his mouth onto mine.
I tensed. Froze.
He grabbed my jaw, forced my mouth open, shoved his tongue in. He didn’t stop. Didn’t care that I wasn’t kissing him back. His grip in my hair tightened, angling my head as he took what he wanted.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, there was a little voice trying to speak up:
I don’t want this.
This doesn’t feel good.
I want to get away from him.
But that voice was faint. Drowned out by something louder, sharper:
Just give him what he wants.
Why does it always have to be about you?
This is why nobody can stand you.
So I kissed him back.
Mechanical. Empty. My eyes drifted to the wall instead. Tiny red and yellow flowers danced across the wallpaper, trimmed with gold foil. Probably the ugliest thing I’d ever seen.
His grip tightened again. I winced. He pressed harder against me.
The lights were too bright. The music from downstairs thudded in my chest—or maybe it was my heart. I couldn’t tell the difference. He tasted like cheap liquor and something acrid.
