Brutal Obsession (13)

“Hey, Violet!” A guy waves at me. “I’ve got a twenty. Wanna suck me off in the bathroom?”

I grimace and turn away. His friends burst into laughter, and they all sweep past us into the student center.

“Ignore them,” Willow says. “It’ll blow over in a few days.”

I nod and follow her inside. We swipe in and get food, then all get a table off to the side. That bubble of quiet from earlier has indeed popped—but now I can hear the snide laughter and questioning gazes. My face gets red and stays that way.

“My parents are flying in from Atlanta next month,” Paris says. “They want to meet Greyson.”

Willow flinches.

“Why would they want to meet him?” Willow snaps at her.

Paris tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Because his father is a senator, and Dad wants to run for office next election. Plus, I have a feeling we’ll be dating by the end of the week.”

Willow’s eyes bug out of her head. I’m not sure about my own reaction, but my face gets hotter. My whole body gets warm, too. There’s a raging inferno under my skin, and I scratch at my wrist. I hope my expression remains somewhat neutral.

Everyone knows Greyson’s dad is a senator in New York. He’s been here a semester, after all. Not much stays secret on a campus this size. But still, putting that fact next to what I told Willow this morning? She’s now seeing the scope of the situation.

“Oh?” My best friend’s voice is strangled.

Paris rolls her eyes, misreading the situation. “Did you think he was a different Devereux? Everyone’s been talking about it.”

Ugh. Willow still has a sour look on her face when she stands abruptly. Her gaze falls to me, and I know what she’s thinking.

That I’m in deeper shit than she figured.

“Why are you looking at Violet?” Paris asks.

Willow can’t even answer. She shakes her head and grabs her plate, stalking away. Should I have mentioned that? Maybe. Probably. I mean, it’s just a little, messy detail.

“I’ve got to go,” I mutter. I take my plate of food to the trash and scrape off what I didn’t eat. I’m nauseated.

How many people saw me blow Jack?

I touch my lips on my way out. A dirty feeling washes over me. I’ve never let myself feel this way before. Shameful almost. I guess I never had a reason to feel it.

On my way out, I catch sight of Jack.

“Hey!” I call.

He glances at me, then away.

The tips of his ears are red.

“Jack?”

He turns to me, and his lips press together. His brows draw down. I’ve never seen him angrier, and I almost take a step back. Something holds me firm, though. Whether that be my own stubbornness or fury at this situation, which we should be in together, I couldn’t say.

“What do you want, Violet?” There’s real venom in his voice.

“I—”

“You’re an embarrassment.” He steps closer, and he ducks his head so we’re practically eye to eye. “I don’t know what the fuck sort of game this is, but—”

“Game?” I choke. “Are you kidding me? You think I wanted everyone to see me—”

“That video painted you as a slut.” He lifts his shoulder and lets it fall. The anger is melting into indifference. “And how should I know? You were someone else over the summer. The girl I used to know. And now…” He shakes his head. “You’re doing to me what you did to Greyson.”

I rear back. He’s got to be fucking kidding me. “You’re blaming me for… ruining your football career? I drank too much and someone took advantage of us in a vulnerable spot. That’s not my fault.”

It’s violating. That’s it.

I let myself feel it for a moment. Simmer in the raw vulnerability of it.

And then I shut it off.

“Well, you know what, Jack? Fuck you, and fuck all your buddies who have been whispering about me behind my back.” I shake my head. “I’m done.”

Ridiculous to think he might’ve been upset with me. With me, not at me.

I’m tired.

The video is down.

Jack is an asshole.

Greyson is a monster.

It’s fine. Everything is fine.

But… it is until it isn’t.

Until I get home, and the front door is ajar.

I push the door open carefully, and it swings inward on silent hinges. I bite my tongue to keep from calling out to Willow. I just left her in the dining hall—there’s no way she’d have beaten me back. I creep inside, my phone clenched in my fist. I dial a nine and a one, ready to hit the last one and call for help. The living room and kitchen are untouched. Same with Willow’s room. Her door is open, the bed neatly made.

It’s my room that’s been affected.

Demolished.

The mattress has been stripped and yanked from the frame. Slices cut into it, rendering it useless. Pieces of foam and fluff litter the floor. The frame is cracked. All my clothes have been ripped out of my closet, the dresser, and spread around. Even the dresser is broken.

I step farther inside and rotate slowly.

The picture wall has been slapped with paint. Just one word. And not one that should even hurt that much, given the discussion my class just had. But it does hurt. It pricks my eyes like little needles. The red paint has dripped down, dotting the pieces of foam and carpet against the wall. None of the photos seem salvageable.