Page 60 of Brutal Obsession

Not bad, just not her style.

Clue number one that she’s pissed.

Willow makes a noise in the back of her throat.

Clue number two? She has what appears to be the photo they used of Greyson farther down in the article, of him on the ice, on her screen.

“How’d she get that?” I ask Willow out of the corner of my mouth.

We’ve been sitting at our table with Jess, Amanda, and a few other dance team girls for twenty minutes.

Paris gets closer, and her eyes laser into mine.

Belatedly, I realize she has a blue drink in her hand.

I’ve never seen her drink anything other than water or vodka—she’s on the clear liquid diet, she says—and I gulp.

“You bitch,” Paris snarls, stopping at the head of the table.

Then, in a fashion very similar to Greyson, she turns the cup over on my head.

The blue liquid crashes down over my hair, immediately soaking into my white graphic t-shirt. It’s ice-cold—actually, she did put ice in it. The cubes slide down my hair and under the collar of my shirt, catching in my bra and lap.

It’s so fucking cold, I can’t move for a moment.

The dining hall goes from loud to silent in an instant.

I stand slowly, brushing the ice chips and loose liquid off me. The faint plinks of the ice hitting the floor are the only noises.

“Obviously you have a problem with me,” I snap.

She sneers. “I wish I had half the balls you do, to be so bold and desperate as to try and hook up with my boyfriend—”

I whip my hand out before my reasoning can take over. My palm cracks against her cheek, and her head snaps to the side. My palm fucking stings, but I mask it. I can’t believe I just slapped her, but I’m so annoyed, I don’t have time to regret it.

“I’m so sick of your shit,” I tell her. “Now get the fuck out of my way.”

Paris turns back slowly, her eyes narrowing. I can see the thoughts that run through her head. She’s thinking of retaliation. She’s thinking through what the worst possible thing she can do to me is. Without another word, she pivots and stalks back the way she came.

She makes a beeline for the far corner of the room, where the hockey table sits.

My stomach knots.

“I didn’t see them,” Willow says, suddenly at my shoulder.

There’s a rustle of movement throughout the dining hall as people shift to watch where Paris is headed. Sure enough, she zeroes in on Greyson the same way she did to me. Minus the blue drink. Instead, she grabs the front of his shirt and slams her lips to his.

From our table, I have the perfect view.

It sears into my mind how he doesn’t push her away—he pulls her onto his lap. He kisses her like he should’ve kissed me last night. Their mouths open, and he dominates her. It’s clear in the way he holds her ass and her arm, in the way she gives in to him, even though she’s above him.

I’m going to be sick.

“Violet—”

“Don’t,” I whisper.

I have two options. I could run away, or I could walk out with my head held tall. Always with the dignity, I take my time grabbing my jacket and shrugging it on over my wet shirt. I flip my hair over my collar, ignoring the way the liquid still drips down my back.

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