Page 29 of Filthy Elite

I feel the blood draining from my face with the force of my humiliation as Maverick stands there in silence for a second, then two, then three.

Then, he laughs. “You’re a bastard, you know that?” he asks, pointing an accusing finger at Colt.

Colt shoves another forkful of pancake and strawberry topping in his mouth with a self-satisfied smile that makes me want to tear the stupid metal plate from his skull and punch him straight in the fucked up brain until he forgets that he ever loved Dixie and remembers that once, he scattered rose petals on the bed for me instead of bending me over and using me like a fuck doll.

“Just so you know,” he says. “Mav fucks anything that comes into his shop. If it’s got a hole, he’ll stick his dick in it.”

I just smirk at him, refusing to show my utter mortification. “Good thing I’ve got three.”

“Oh my god,” Dixie squeals. “You should be warninghim. He’s supposed to be your friend, and she’s a total skank.”

Colt shrugs.

“What the fuck, man?” Maverick says, actually sounding pissed. “Not cool.”

“Just didn’t want Lo thinking she was special,” Colt says, leveling me with an unflinching stare, like he’s daring me to try to put him in his place now that I’ve fallen from grace like him.

I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Don’t worry, Colt,” I say, smiling sweetly. “I know last night didn’t mean anything. If I was special, you wouldn’t have been interested. I mean, just look at your girlfriend. Special clearly isn’t what you’re going for.”

eight

Rumor Has It…the Snake has been seen out and about with one of Faulkner’s most loathsome residents, a lowlife from the unfortunate underbelly of our fine town. Has she finally found a place where she belongs, or will she continue to bring shame to the Willow Heights name?

Colt Darling

I watch Maverick push open the door, his hands all over her, like she belongs to him. “Why doesn’t he just shove her up against the window and fuck her?” I grumble, tossing down my napkin, my appetite gone.

I glare at the offending hands that have tattooed and pierced me so many times, now laying claim to Gloria Walton. One holds the door while the other rests easily on her lower back, guiding her out. He might as well be fingering her cunt for all the world to see. The rage I keep locked down tight so I can survive each day of being the school’s whipping boy billows, volcanic and uncontainable. I want to smash through the diner’s windows and tear them apart, tear his hand from hers when it grips it as he tugs her into the street, hurrying her across. I start to rise, ready to go after them, to throw him down on the sidewalk and bash his head in the way the Dolces did mine.

“What was she talking about?” Dixie screeches.

“What?” I ask, the record-scratch of her voice cutting through the haze of insanity that took me over for a moment. I shake my head, trying to clear it, to get in the game for the next battle I’ve accidentally waded into.

“Last night?” Dixie asks, her voice rising.

Guilt twists into my gut, and I wish I hadn’t just downed a stack of pancakes with my coffee. “Keep your voice down,” I say, glancing around the Downtown Diner, one of the last places in Faulkner a Darling can go without fear of repercussion.

“I don’t think I will,” Dixie yells.

I winced. “I was with you last night,” I remind her.

She takes a breath, narrowing her eyes and flaring her nostrils as she exhales. “Then why would she say that?”

“So you’d do this,” I say, gesturing around at the other tables filled with people giving us curious looks. Lying to her makes me feel like shit, but the truth would hurt us both—and Gloria. If anyone found out she threw herself at me, was ready to fuck the guy they’ve all decided is a repulsive golem, they’d make her life ten times worse than they’re already going to.

“She’ll be sorry,” Dixie fumes, pulling out her phone and tapping on the screen. “I’m going to make a post right now about how she’s so desperate she has to get with trailer trash because all the guys at Willow Heights have already run through her a dozen times over.”

“Maverick’s not trailer trash,” I say, searching for them outside. They disappeared while I was distracted by Dixie making a scene, though. A flash of annoyance goes through me—at her for making me lose sight of them, at them for going somewhere I can’t see, at myself for caring.

“You don’t have to literally live in the trailer park for the term to fit,” Dixie says, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah?” I ask. “Then I guess it can apply to anyone. He could say the same about you.”

Dixie huffs indignantly. “My aunt is married to the mayor,” she reminds me. “Which means I’m related to a founding family. That’s as far from trailer trash as you can get.”

“Whatever you say,” I mutter, not taking my eyes off the street outside.

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