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I whimper again, nodding in his grip. “When? When can I have you both?”

He smirks. “My needy little slut. Soon. I promise. But for now, come with me to the gala tonight.”

“Wh-what?” I ask with a laugh. That was like a dose of whiplash there. “You just got done making me come again, calling me your little slut while talking about fucking both of my holes, and now you’re asking me to the gala?”

“Yeah, Billie, I am.” He laughs.

“Because Christian wants you to?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, becauseIwant to.”

But I don’t know if I can. Everyone hates me. Our peers won’t want to see me at their annual gala event, especially not with Zeke Lungren. He’s stillone of them.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. Maybe I shouldn’t because of—”

Grabbing my jaw, he pushes my head into the door and gets right up to my face when he says, “Fuck all these assholes who don’t know you, Billie. You’ll be with me tonight. If anyone gives you shit or even so much as gives you a stupid fucking look, I’ll put an end to it.”

“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll only go because I trust you.”

He gently kisses my lips. “Good. As you should. I’ll see you later tonight then.” Stepping away from me, I see the bulge in his slacks and let out a small whimper as I move away from the door. I know what’s hiding behind those khakis, and fuck, what I wouldn’t give to sit on it again right now.

“Oh, and Billie?”

I’m clear across the room now, my mind in a total mess of fuckery as I turn and look at him.

“Wear the red gown you wore at last year’s homecoming dance.”

My mouth drops when I recall the dress he’s referring to. It’s a bright red dress that clings to every inch, designed to push my tits up and show off my curvy hips.

“But it’s tradition women wear dark gray, black or silver, Zeke.”

He grins. “Exactly. Wear it, Billie.”

Leaving my dorm room with a slam of my door, I fall onto my bed and revel in the buzz I’m still feeling from my orgasm.

Itugatthetight red dress as Zeke comes around the front of his car to place his hand on the small of my back. The Dixon Center is gorgeous tonight, lit up with our school colors—maroon and black. They might hold this event for multiple school districts, but everyone knows the Reapers rule most everything. Tons of parents, students, and their dates mill into the massive, colonial-style building. I’m a ball of nerves, knowing that every single person in there tonight is going to look at me. I stick out like a sore thumb, and I wonder if Zeke has a reason for it.

“I look ridiculous,” I hiss so only he can hear me.

Leaning in, he whispers, “You look smokin’ hot, babe. Everyone has forgotten who you are and what your last name is, so we’re going to remind them tonight.”

He walks us up the massive stone stairs to the entrance, but I don’t miss the scrutinizing and judgmental glares thrown my way. Just like I knew, every man is in a black tux and the women are in a dark shade—black or gray—or even a silver gown like I knew they’d be. I feel like Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter. That Nathaniel Hawthorne knew things ahead of his time. That, or people were shitty human beings all those years ago, too.

“Stop fidgeting with your fingers, Billie. Hold your head high, your shoulders back, and look down at them like the pieces of shit they are,” Zeke whispers to me.

“Easy for you to say.” I’m about to throw up right now.

He says nothing when the father of the Reaper quarterback approaches us. It’s obvious he doesn’t approve of my attire; it’s written all over his face.

“Mr. Lungren and Ms… Lucas,” he greets with a less than friendly tone. “I assume you received the invitation that clearly says black attire, no?”

“Oh, we did, but Billie is far too beautiful to be stuck wearing black like your soul, Mr. Dickhead,” Zeke says so effortlessly thatMr. Dickheadblinks several times, probably wondering if he heard him correctly. And I can’t stop the snort I make when I try to hide my laugh.

Mrs. Goldman saunters over, grinning from ear to ear like she always does. The woman is stunning for being as old as she is. I remember her being old when I was a little girl. She must be immortal, that or she has an excellent plastic surgeon.

“What a lovely gown, dear,” she says to me, holding out her age-spotted hand. I place mine in hers before she twirls me around. “The gem of the evening, don’t you think, Baxter?”

Ah, so Mr. Dickhead has a first name. Baxter sounds a lot like someone saying bastard with a mouth full of food. It’s fitting.

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