What We Saw(59)

“Are you sure Sloane wasn’t just trying to get a rise out of Hargrove?” Lindsey asks.

“No,” I say. “Okay, maybe, but if there was no video, why wouldn’t he just say so?”

Lindsey nods, conceding the point. “Did you ask Ben about it?”

“Not really.”

“Not even when UltraFEM threatened to release it next week?”

“No. I already stalked his Twitter feed and his Facebook. I felt so guilty when I talked to him about it afterward. I don’t want to be that girl.”

She frowns. “How does asking about something this important make you ‘that girl’? Don’t you want to know for sure what kind of guy your boyfriend is?”

I pull a pillow over my face and groan into it, then throw it back at the head of her bed. “I do know him. I’ve known him since we were five. If Ben knew about this video, I just don’t believe he’d keep it from me—or the police.”

“He’s way into you,” Lindsey agrees, her fingers tapping on the keys. “Couldn’t keep his arm off you last night at dinner.”

“To be fair, he was also keeping me on the seat. There wasn’t much room in that booth, and—”

“This might be it.” Lindsey slides her laptop toward me so it balances on both our legs. The words float away from my lips first, and then my brain. The video in the browser is titled simply #R&P. The frozen image is the arm of a couch. It’s the signature white leather of Margie Doone’s brand-new basement media room. I’m overcome with the certainty that I have asked to see too much.

“Whose account is this?” I ask. “What email did you use to search for it?”

“No one’s,” she says. “All you can see on Reddit are usernames. I finally found this buried in a sub-Reddit by searching a bunch of the hashtags people were using that night.” She points at #R&P. “Almost forgot about this one.”

We stare at the screen for what feels like a very long time.

Eons.

Finally, Lindsey crosses her arms. “I found it,” she whispers. “You have to push play.”

My finger is trembling as I hold it over the silver track pad. I swallow hard, and click.

As the image springs to life, the person holding the camera jumps over the white leather sofa arm onto the couch. Stacey is lying on the chaise that sticks out from the opposite corner of the sectional. Her halter top is missing, but her bra is still on. Her eyes are closed.

Dooney is lying next to her, rubbing his hand up and down her stomach, cupping her breasts, laughing. Deacon pulls up her skirt as Kyle leans in and out of the frame over the back of the couch with a red plastic cup and shouts, “Buccaneers! R-and-P, babeeey.”

Dooney buries his face in Stacey’s breasts, shaking his head side to side and making a motorboat noise with his lips. He slides a hand down into her underwear.

“Dude! She drunk or dead?” I recognize the squeak of Randy’s voice, his words slurring from behind the camera. He must be filming this with his phone.

Greg is there, hooting and pushing Randy, the camera jerking and shaking. I gasp as it pans around the room.

There are so many people there.

I catch a glimpse of the Tracies, one of them making out with LeRon, the other sitting in an overstuffed chair with a glassy gaze. She looks stoned out of her mind.

Some areas are more well lit than others, but the footage is remarkably clear. As Randy swings the camera back to the couch, he gets closer. Dooney is pulling down Stacey’s underwear with one hand, the fingers of his other hand already inside her. Randy shouts and giggles hysterically. “Oh my god, dude!”

Greg leans over the couch again, smacking lightly at Stacey’s face. “Yo! Anybody home in there?”

She moans and twists away from his touch, a drowsy hand comes to her mouth like she’s batting a fly away from her lips. She’s barely conscious.

“I got something that’ll wake her up!” roars Dooney.

Deacon and Greg collapse in laughter. Dooney is sloppy, flailing around, undoing his belt and his jeans. He pulls off his shirt, whooping. “Let’s get our bucc on!”

“Dooney! Where’s the tunes, man?” The camera spins again, as Reggie leans into Randy, then notices what’s going on. “Oh, shit!”

We get a close-up of Reggie as he sees what is about to happen on the other end of the couch. “No way, dude!” He laughs like a seventh grader who has just heard a fart joke.

When Randy spins the camera back around, Dooney is already on top of Stacey, the belt of his jeans flopping against the side of the couch as he pushes his hips into her. She grunts and moans, eyes still closed.

She has no idea what is happening.

Acid rises in my throat. I want to run, but I’m paralyzed, staring at the screen. My heart is beating out a command to flee, but I know I have to stay. I have to see this.

The voices and faces overlap. The sound and focus blurs and snaps.

Randy shouts, “Get a roooooooom,” from behind the camera.

Reggie laughs and yells, “Timber!”

Greg high-fives Deacon over Dooney’s back. “Your turn to wake her up next, man.”

Reggie circles the couch and appears next to Greg, standing over Dooney for a closer look. “You taking a crack at that?”