Page 46 of Wanted You More

All he does for a few minutes is stare at me, like he’s waiting for me to start laughing and tell him it’s a joke. “Are you saying what I think you are? I can literally never tell with you.”

Moving closer, I put my hand on his leg and inch it upward. “I’m saying that desperate times call for desperate measures. This is a one-time offer. Take it or leave it.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, putting the joint out on the ground. “You sure? You look…I don’t know. Sad.”

I don’t like how he sees that. “I’m fine,” I lie, moving onto my knees and climbing onto his lap to straddle him. “So, you in?”

His eyes get dark as his hands move to my waist. “Hell yeah. But are you su—”

“If you ask one more time, I’m going to change my mind and go home,” I warn, letting my hands move to the button of his jeans. “So I suggest you stop talking and start working.”

A devious grin curls his lips. “I knew you’d be bossy.”

I pinch his lips closed. “Nick? Shut up and make me feel better.”

His hands round my back and grab my butt, pushing me down onto the bulge growing between his legs. Then he spends the next thirty minutes doing exactly what I tell him to until I forget why I’m sad.

That’s when the guilt takes over.

Followed by shame.

And I feel worse for saying yes to a boy I don’t even want to forget about the one I do.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Alot ofpeople at school are staring at me as I enter the cafeteria. I’m not unused to the attention, but I usually know where it stems from. Like when I make a scene in class or Cheyanne decides to spread a new rumor around school. I haven’t done anything recently that warrants any unwanted attention from anyone, including the evil queen herself.

As I grab a sandwich from the grab-and-go section of the lunch line and pass money to the woman working the register, I feel the burning gaze of people’s eyes on my back. Turning, I study the space and see a few girls at the nearest table glance at their phones before looking back up at me.

I walk over to them, trying not to assume what’s going on despite my mind going to the big-mouthed boy I’d spent a night with only days ago. “You might as well tell me what’s going on instead of talking behind my back.”

The girls, who I’m pretty sure are freshmen, look like they may get sick at the no-bullshit tone of my voice. Marybelle has told me I scare a lot of the underclassmen with my resting bitch face, so I can use that to my advantage today to get some answers.

It’s the pretty Kate Middleton lookalike who bites her lip and turns her phone screen toward me. I’m not sure what I expect to see, but it isn’t what I see playing.

“Is that Senator Mackie?” I ask, grabbing her cell to get a better look at the news article with a video ofmeplaying in the middle of it. I haven’t paid any attention to the man who won the election regardless of our complaints of his constant harassment. I scan the title of the article and fume at what they’re saying. “Who fact checked this bullshit? This is basically tabloid fodder pretending to be actual news. I mean, seriously? ‘What could newly elected Senator Mackie do to help victims of traumatic events cope with the past?’”

Scoffing, I watch the video of me playing beer pong. It’s clear that I’m drunk. There are guys groping me. Pictures of me dirty dancing and stumbling upstairs. It doesn’t look good, I’ll admit. But it’s not the most scandalous party I’ve ever gone to. Yet, once again, I’m the poster child of trashy teens in need of serious help.

“This asshole is using me to promote his new activism plan,” I breathe, eyeing the senator smiling in his headshot printed below all the ugly photos of me.

Isn’t this illegal? I’m not well-versed in the media using underaged people for personal gain, but it seems like he could get into serious trouble from it. This may not be the first time I’ve seen my name and pictures used to show what a mess I am, but it’s certainly the one that’ll set me back the most. I’ve managed to gain a lot of trust with my dad for keeping to myself instead of getting into trouble. I wanted to do what Noah insisted on and forget the night of the party ever happened, and here it is plastered online.

Nostrils flaring after reading over the article that talks a bunch of BS about how other victims of mass shootings use self-destructive behavior to cope with the healing process, I shove the phone back into the freshman’s hand and dump my food into the closest trash bin as I storm out of the room. I don’t need some random journalist saying I’m ruining my life by going to a high school party and being a seventeen-year-old girl.

Pulling my phone out, I’m about to text Noah when I stop myself. Bailey’s words are still front and center in my head. As much as I don’t want to believe that Noah wants distance from me, he hasn’t reached out or checked in at all since the party. I don’t want to be the first one to make contact because I refuse to let my pride take an even bigger hit than it already has.

Deleting the message I’m halfway through typing, I decide to go to the only other person I know who could help.

“Ben?” I say as soon as he picks up.

“Already working on it, kid,” he tells me in that comforting gruff tone of his. “This isn’t going to be easy to take down because it technically isn’t an actual news site. Independent publishers don’t follow the same rules. You know that.”

Does that make this any easier? “They’re making me look like a train wreck. I don’t know who would have taken those photos, much less submit them.”

Ben sighs. “You kids record everything these days. Is it that surprising that somebody was filming the party? It could have been posted online somewhere and the website got ahold of it to use for this piece. This is why I keep telling you to be—”

“Careful,” I finish for him, scowling at the word I hate at this point. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just tired of this. There are other people who chose not to speak up about that night and they’re not being harassed or cornered or made into articles like this. They’re not told to always be on the lookout or on their best behavior like they should be punished for living their lives. So why should I stop living? Why do I always need to be the careful one? Any other girl my age could go out and it wouldn’t be plastered everywhere on the news. It isn’t fair, Ben.”

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