Seven Days in June(55)

“He won’t bother you anymore.”

And this was how she knew she was as crazy as he was. Her fear evaporated, and all she felt was a perverse, potent throb, making her squeeze her thighs together. He slayed dragons she couldn’t. He was a fucking outlaw. And she wanted that power inside her.

Good girls were supposed to want a prom kiss from the quarterback, not a face fuck from the hot psycho. But she supposed she wasn’t good, ’cause she was on Shane in seconds, ripping down his soaked jeans and boxers—draining him till he was weak, and she was full.



She remembered standing on the terrace at dusk, gazing three stories down into the pool. She knew she’d taken too much of…something, ’cause she was in a state of both syrupy wonder and creeping hysteria. Plus, her pain was so vivid that she could barely follow her own thoughts.

But the thoughts were loud.

Everything felt so out of control. Her dependency on Shane suddenly terrified her. When he’d disappeared, she’d felt herself dissolving. What if he hadn’t come back? And what about after this? This house, this adventure? What was the plan? Would he want her when it was over?

She lost things. She’d lost her health. She’d lost Princeton. She’d surely lose her mom, after this. She’d lose Shane, too. Boys left after they slept with you. It was why she hadn’t slept with Shane yet.

Shane was her lighthouse. If he went dark, she’d be lost, treading black water forever.

I won’t survive this, she thought, stroking the smooth plastic encasing her pocketknife. This pain. It’s too much.

Maybe she’d just let go, then.

She climbed up on the middle horizontal bar of the railing and leaned far over, waiting for gravity to take her.

But then she felt Shane’s hard, casted arm encircle her chest, knocking the wind out of her and yanking her back into the room. He dropped her on the bed and then climbed next to her, grabbing her jaw with his good hand.

“The fuck you doing?” He shook her.

She blinked hazily. Her eye sockets hurt from knuckling them in her sleep, trying to relieve the insistent stabbing in her temples. She wondered why she bothered.

“Don’t die, baby.”

“Gimme a reason.”

“Me,” he rasped. “Stay for me.”

“Selfish.”

“I am.” He slipped his arm under her shoulders, pressing her to him. “I need you, so you can’t die.”

“Just…just let me.”

With a desperate groan, he dropped his face into the hollow of her shoulder and begged.

“Stay. I’ll make it worth it. I’ll make it so fucking good, Genevieve. You’ll be so happy, I swear. Just gimme your pain; I’ll take it all. Promise to stay, and I’ll never leave. Me and you, forever. Promise me.”

Her eyes fluttered open.

She didn’t want to promise with words.

She somehow untangled herself from Shane’s arms, pushing him backward and straddling him. She reached for her knife, flipped it open and grabbed a lighter off the nightstand. With unsteady hands, she dipped the blade in the flame.

Shane’s chest rose sharply, then froze.

Carefully, she carved a jagged, sloppy S on her forearm, right below her elbow crease. It was just deep enough to spill droplets of blood on his chest.

Shane reached for the fifth of vodka on the nightstand, downed it, then offered her his good arm. She dipped the blade in the fire again and scratched out a crooked G in the same place on his arm.

The hurt was intense, but they were so wasted, it buzzed. Just another thing to feel. With a feral growl, he flipped her over, and the rest was chaos—ravenous kissing, sucking, biting, clawing, and then Shane sinking into her, fucking her like he was giving her a reason to live. He didn’t stop till she fell apart beneath him, soaring, shaking, sobbing, and utterly, wholly his.



She remembered waking up in an airtight embrace. A familiar scent enveloped her, and she nuzzled deeper into it. As the fog of unconsciousness lifted, she recognized the scent. White Diamonds. And Black drama.

It was her mom, mascaraed tears streaming from her movie-star eyes.

In the light of day, the room looked like a crime scene. The sheets were a mess; empty bottles cluttered the floor; pills and powder dusted the nightstand. She was covered in love bites, scratches, and cuts, her S hidden behind gauze. A furious Korean American chick with a Dior saddlebag was shrieking into a cell phone. Medics and cops swarmed around the bed, and an IV needle jutted from her inner elbow, attached to a saline bag. She heard someone say she’d overdosed.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” said the disembodied voice.

Alive, yes. Lucky, no.

“Wh-where’s Shane?”

“Who is Shane?” drawled Lizette distractedly. “Oh, bé. If I can’t make them stay, you can’t. Mercier women are cursed. Cursed.”





THURSDAY





Chapter 17





An Unanswered Question




“I’M TELLING YOU, THAT THING UPSTAIRS ISN’T MY DAUGHTER. SHE’S ALREADY seen every fucking psychiatrist in the world, and they sent me to you, Father. She needs a priest. You can’t tell me that an exorcism wouldn’t do her any good! You can’t tell me that!”