22. Maren
Maren
I let him in. I let him ruin me.
The words hang in the air of my apartment like smoke, choking me. I can still smell him on my skin. That fucking cologne he wears. Hockey player cologne. The kind that shouldn't make my stomach flip, but does.
I slam my palm against the headboard, welcoming the sting. Better than whatever the hell that was with Riggs. That wasn't just fucking. That was…something else.
I pull my knees to my chest.
His face flashes behind my eyelids—that cocky smile cracking when I'd kicked him out. Like I'd actually hurt him. Like he has feelings that can be hurt.
I drag myself to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. I don't want to see what he saw. Don't want to catch whatever expression was on my face when he was inside me, when I forgot for those few seconds that I hate him. That I'm supposed to hate him.
The shower runs hot enough to scald, but I barely feel it.
“Maybe we could do this again,” he'd said afterward, voice casual but eyes anything but. “Like, regularly.”
Like we're dating. Like we're normal. Like I'm not broken, and he's not obsessed.
Or that I’m not obsessed with him.
My fingernails dig crescents into my palms. I let him see something in me tonight. Something real. Something I've kept buried for years since everything went to shit.
Water streams down my face, and I tell myself it's just from the shower.
I should've known better. Riggs doesn't just watch. He consumes. And now he thinks he has permission.
Shutting off the water I catch my reflection in the fogged mirror. Haunted eyes. Swollen lips. I look like someone who just got fucked.
But that's not what scares me.
I look like someone who just got seen.
Wrapping myself in a towel, I pad into the living room, grabbing my phone on the way. My skin is still damp, hair dripping cold trails down my back.
I start scrolling through JaguarHallPass, thumb moving mechanically. Food. Vacation. Parties. Nothing real. Nothing that matters.
Then I freeze.
There he is. Posted an hour ago. Riggs at some house party, red cup in hand, that easy smile on his face like he doesn't have a care in the fucking world. He’s standing next to a blonde, and they're surrounded by a dozen smiling faces. The caption reads: “night time vibes #seniorliving.”
My stomach knots so tight I nearly double over.
“You've got to be kidding me,” I whisper.
The timestamp says this was taken shortly after he left my apartment. After I kicked him out. After I saw that look in his eyes like I'd actually wounded him.
What a fucking joke.
“He's fine,” I say out loud, my voice sounding strange in the empty apartment. “Of course he is. Why wouldn't he be?”
The rage builds inside me like a physical thing, hot and acidic. Here I am, raw and bleeding from the inside out, while he's doing beer bongs with his hockey bros.
I throw my phone across the room. It bounces off the couch cushions, screen still lit with his stupid face. His stupid perfect life.
Mascara first. Heavy, brutal strokes that make my eyes look even more hollow. Blood-red lipstick next, the shade matching the manicure I touched up yesterday. I line my lips with precision, making them fuller, more inviting. More dangerous.
Fuck Riggs. Fuck his party. Fuck his blonde.
I slip into a black dress that hugs every curve, the kind that makes men stupid. Pair it with heeled boots that make me taller, stronger. The girl in the mirror looks lethal.
The cold air hits me as I step outside, but I barely feel it. The rideshare driver tries small talk. I shut him down with a look.
The Rusty Nail is packed tonight. Thursdays always are. College kids getting a head start on the weekend. The bass pounds through my chest as I push through the crowd. I order a vodka soda I have no intention of drinking. Eyes follow me but I'm hunting for something specific tonight.
I spot him by the dartboard. Tall, broad-shouldered, dumb blue polo shirt. He's laughing too loudly, taking up too much space. Classic entitled prick. I watch as he approaches a brunette at the bar, slides up next to her, puts his hand on the small of her back. She shifts away, uncomfortable.
He leans closer. Says something in her ear. She shakes her head, tries to move away again. His hand stays firm.
“Just one drink,” I can read his lips from here. “Don't be such a bitch about it.”
My blood hums with anticipation.
I down half my drink for courage I don't need and make my way over, hips swaying, eyes locked on my target.
“Hey,” I say, sliding between them. “I've been looking everywhere for you.” I'm talking to the girl, but my eyes flick to him, inviting, appraising.
The girl looks confused for a second, then grateful. “Yeah, sorry, I got caught up.”
“This your friend?” Blue Polo frat fuck asks, eyes roaming my body.
“No,” I smile, all teeth. “But I could be yours.”
The girl takes her chance and disappears. He grins, thinking he's traded up.
“I'm Tyler,” he says, leaning closer than necessary.
“Becca.” I offer my hand. He holds it too long.
“What are you drinking?” He signals the bartender.
“Whatever you're having.” I lean against the bar, letting my dress ride up just enough.
Two shots appear. We clink glasses. I pretend to drink mine, watching as he throws his back.
“So what's your major?” he asks, hand already finding my waist.
“Psychology,” I answer truthfully. “I like to understand what makes people tick.”
“Yeah?” His fingers press harder. “None of the brainy chicks at my school are hot like you are.”
“So you don't go to St. James?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Nah, babe, I'm from Castlebrook. Just decided to check out the scene over here tonight.” His breath is hot against my ear, reeking of cheap beer and entitlement. “Girls at my school are all ran through, if you know what I mean. Needed some fresh territory.”
I smile like I'm impressed by his honesty, but I can read the truth in his eyes. He's blacklisted. The kind of guy whose name gets whispered in bathroom warnings. The predator girls warn each other about, comparing notes on their phones.
“Lucky me,” I purr, watching his pupils dilate. Men are so fucking transparent.
“Very lucky you,” he agrees, hand sliding from my waist to the small of my back, fingers digging in possessively. Too hard. Testing boundaries already.
“What about you?” he asks, not really interested. “You live on campus?”
“Off. Not far.” I take a fake sip of my drink. “Senior year.”
His hand travels lower, cupping my ass. I don't react, just smile emptily while something cold settles in my chest. This detachment is familiar, comfortable. Like slipping into old clothes.
“You're fucking gorgeous, babe,” he says, squeezing harder. “What are you doing after this?”
The nickname makes my skin crawl, but I lean into him like I'm flattered. Inside, I'm calculating. Weighing options. His size against mine. The crowd around us. The exits.
“I was thinking about heading back to my place,” I say, voice honeyed. “But I don't usually bring strangers home.”
His smile widens. “I'm not a stranger anymore, am I? I'm Tyler; you're Becca. We're practically dating.”
I laugh like that's charming and not the creepiest fucking thing I've heard all night.
“One more drink first,” I suggest, nodding toward his empty glass. “I need to catch up.”
He signals the bartender again, eagerly.
Two shots and beers appear in front of us. Tyler raises his shot glass with a smirk.
“To new friends,” he says, eyes already undressing me.
I clink my glass against his, watching as he throws his back. I bring mine to my lips, tilt my head back, but the liquid never touches my throat. I turn slightly, spitting it directly into my beer bottle while he's still grimacing from his own shot.
“Whoo!” I exclaim, shaking my head like it burned. “That's strong.”
Tyler grins, clearly pleased I can “handle my liquor.” He downs half his beer in one gulp, then leans in closer.
“You're not like other girls, are you, Becca?”
“You have no idea,” I murmur, looking up through my lashes.
He finishes his beer while I pretend to sip mine. The alcohol is hitting him now; his movements are sloppier, his eyes glazed.
I giggle, a sound so fake it makes my own skin crawl, and stumble slightly against him. “Oops! Sorry. I think those shots went straight to my head.”
His arm wraps around my waist, fingers burning into the same spots Riggs held earlier. “I got you, baby.”
I press my body against his, swaying deliberately. “Maybe we should get out of here. I'm feeling...” I bite my lip, looking up at him. “You know.”
His eyes darken. “Your place, right?”
I nod, giggling again as I pretend to lose my balance. “It's not far. We can walk.”
“Lead the way,” he says practically salivating.
We stumble out into the night, his arm heavy around my shoulders. The cold air hits me, but I don't shiver.
“Which way?” he slurs, looking down at me expectantly.
I point vaguely toward the darker end of the street, away from the main campus area. “Just through the alley. Shortcut, and it’s soooooo nice to have.”
We turn into the alley, the street lights fading behind us, leaving us in shadows. Tyler's hands are all over me now, groping and grabbing like I'm something he bought. His fingers dig into my hips, yanking me back against him.
“Fuck waiting,” he growls, shoving me against the brick wall. His mouth is wet and sloppy on my neck, teeth scraping my skin. He reeks of booze and desperation.
I push against his chest, keeping my voice light. “Hold on, tiger. Let's wait until we get back to my place. I've got drinks, music...”
He laughs, a cruel sound that echoes in the narrow space. His hand clamps around my wrist, twisting until I wince.
“Nah, babe. I think you can show me how much you appreciate me walking you home right here.” He shoves me backward, his weight pinning me to the wall. “Get on your knees.”