Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4)(137)

“Seeing if it fits,” Cleo said, and she shared a furtive glance with Harper. They both giggled again. Cleo wobbled in her heels, and Harper dug her hand in a shopping bag, revealing a pink dildo.

My smile vanished. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“Some of the guys wanted to know,” Cleo said, “how many inches fit inside you. We told them we’d find out.”

I tried to laugh it off, charm her. She was drunk. Harper was buzzed. They didn’t know what they were doing, right? “Very funny,” I said. “Come on, let’s go up to your place.” I tried to hit the buttons, but Cleo blocked me while Harper stood off to the side, the sex toy in her hand.

The hairs on my neck stuck up in alarm. “Cleo, come on.” My voice was no longer joking. I wasn’t playing around. “It’s not funny.”

Harper waved the dildo at me. “You’ve probably had ones like this in you all the time.”

“Yeah,” Cleo said. “You’ll love it. Whore runs in your family.” And then Harper grabbed my arms.

“Stop!” I screamed. I jerked out of her hold and instinctively backed into the wall. I was frozen with this horrifying shock and fear, and then Cleo made it even worse.

She said, “If you don’t do this, we’ll make your life a living hell until graduation. Every day in the hall, every day in class.” I learned that the guy who prodded Cleo to do this to me in the elevator was Houston Boggs, a senior that she had a crush on.

She had to follow through, and if she didn’t she’d look bad in front of him, all talk, a tease. And she wanted to show him that she could play in the big leagues. She wanted to f*ck me over, and I just wanted to be left alone.

“Stop,” I said. “Please.”

The waterworks came the moment Harper gripped my wrist and yanked me to my knees.

“Do it, slut!” Cleo yelled—as though I wasn’t even her friend. She laughed, and Harper smiled. And I cried.

I started unbuttoning my shorts because I thought—I can’t be tormented for the rest of prep school. I had six months left. Half a year. That was six months too many.

What was one moment compared to weeks and weeks?

But I cried.

I cried as I slipped off my shorts. I cried as I was forced to make a decision that had no good end. The longer I hesitated, the more Cleo threatened me—the more I feared. She said they’d break into my bedroom. She said they’d watch me while I was sleeping. She said that the whole grade would get behind her, rallying against me and my slut sister.

She said all of this with a slur, the alcohol glazing her eyes. And then I thought—I’ll get away. They won’t remember this in the morning.

So in my panties with the sex toy by my knee, I made a decision that would haunt me for six more months and counting.

I stood up and cried, “No.” I shook my head, my hair tangling at my waist. I stepped back into my shorts, zipping them with trembling hands.

And I pushed the girls out of my way. They were screaming behind me, tugging my hair, but I got the elevator moving, and when the doors burst open, I sprinted.

I sprinted, took the staircase back down, and I kept looking back—terrified, haunted.

The next day at school, my locker was filled with condoms.

The next day after that, two guys cornered me in the hallway and tried to give me a titty twister in jest and cruelty.

I always looked over my shoulder. I always locked the door. And I prayed for the end.

Graduation may have come. But my fear always, always stayed.

I wish I could go back and choose the other option. I’ve told that to Ryke before, and he said it probably wouldn’t have made a difference. Maybe he’s right.

“Daisy,” Rose says, her voice breaking.

I realize that I’m crying so hard. And both Lily and Rose are kneeling on the hardwood beside me with tears of their own. My throat burns, and it takes me a moment to recognize that everything swirling in my head came right out of my mouth.

That story—they heard every little detail. All the bits and pieces and the pain.

“It’s over,” Rose says, rubbing my back. “They can’t hurt you anymore. We won’t let them.”

I nod, believing her words. I haven’t been confronted by someone in months. Ryke’s made sure of that.

“Daisy.” Lily speaks, her voice surprisingly steady. She’s the one that holds my hand tight. I finally look up, staring into her bloodshot eyes that flood with tears. “I’m really sorry this happened to you. And I know…I know it’s hard sharing this stuff, but thank you for telling us.”

My chest swells, and I nod a couple times.

Rose wipes some of my tears for me with the brush of her fingers to my cheek, and she asks, “Have you told your therapist?”

“Parts,” I whisper.

Rose shakes her head. “Daisy, you have post-traumatic stress. It’s probably why you aren’t sleeping.”

My tears just keep coming, silently.

“You need to tell your therapist the rest, okay?” Rose adds, sniffing. She dabs a tissue under her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara.

“I told Ryke all of it,” I murmur.

“And I told Lo about my problems,” Lily replies sweetly. “It’s not enough.”