Letter Six #2
Bree wanted to go home, so Tinsley distracted her while I grabbed Michael’s whiskey and slipped the bottle into my bag.
Back at the house, on our way upstairs, Tinsley and I spotted you in bed—reading, as usual. When your gaze flicked up to meet mine, my stomach fluttered. Because of my plan, obviously. Definitely not because you were wearing those black reading glasses or anything.
Tinsley did my makeup all sexy like hers and let me borrow one of her black bandage dresses.
Skintight. Insanely short. It had sheer long sleeves, a sheer turtleneck, a little cutout at the chest, and wired cups that molded to my boobs, pushing them up.
The type of dress my dad would never allow me to wear, and I understood why as I studied myself in the floor-length mirror opposite my bed.
It clung to my curves in all the right places, making me look like a woman instead of a girl.
Unlike my closet full of curated innocence and well-behaved pastels, this dress drew attention. Made people look twice. And that’s the last thing my dad wanted when it came to me.
Better if I faded into the background.
Better if none of those innocent moths at my school were ever drawn to the flame.
Tinsley and I tiptoed downstairs, holding our shoes, pausing outside your room. You’d left the door cracked open just wide enough for us to catch the soft click-clack of your keyboard. We exchanged a look, then slipped down in silence.
Willoughby waited out back with a group of kids who filtered inside quietly, like he’d instructed them, thrumming with excitement. They were in awe of my house, in awe of me.
It’s like I told you that time after brunch: I’d become something of a legend among my classmates.
I was the girl who’d stabbed Michael Harris at her birthday party and my dungeon-like house marked the scene of the crime.
They loved being there, loved the chance to act it out and reminisce—Look!
There’s where it happened!—but mostly they loved gawking at me outside of school.
And, boy, did they all, watching me strut through the house in that little black dress, bereft of my messy side-braid for once, loose curls falling down my shoulders and framing my face.
Willoughby gawked especially hard, stepping back as I approached him. “Damn, Elliot. You’re a hot girl. Who knew?”
I rolled my eyes. “If I get handsy with you tonight, are you okay with that?”
“Is this a trick question?” Willoughby asked, huffing out a laugh. Then he leaned close, slipped an arm around my waist, and murmured close to my ear, “You can touch me anywhere you want.”
This, Casey. This is what I liked about Willoughby.
He treated me like a normal person while everyone else at school treated me like a freak.
The previous year, when Michael was a senior and we’d hang out in the library or walk down the hall together, they’d yell out things like, “Careful, man! She might stab you again!”
Still, they worshipped Michael.
But me? I was ignored or outright feared, given a wide berth in the halls, chosen last for group projects, and avoided in the girls’ restroom. Most people could barely make eye contact with me.
But Willoughby always did, offering me a friendly smile, too.
Granted, Willoughby had only lived in Boston for a few years. So for him, the stabbing had always been some crazy story he’d heard and not something he witnessed for himself like many of the others had. But still.
Willoughby looked over my shoulder while I pulled up a playlist on my phone, chose one of my favorite rap songs, and played it over the speaker system downstairs, cranking the volume up slowly until the base thumped at full blast. Everyone had already started to drink, and then some of them started to dance.
I hopped on the kitchen island, swiping the bottle of whiskey I’d stolen from Michael’s apartment off the counter and bringing it to my lap. With Willoughby standing next to me, I crossed my legs and waited for the music to draw you out of your room.
Less than two minutes later, you appeared, flustered and angry, your dark gaze frantically searching the crowd. When you spotted me, I cocked my head, shot you a devilish smirk, and lifted that bottle of whiskey to my lips. You gave me this stern look, Casey. It said, You better not.
But of course I fucking did.
The whiskey burned my throat going down, and I liked that. Didn’t even flinch.
You weaved through the kids in my kitchen. “What’s going on here?” you said over the music, gaze briefly dropping to my bare legs. You jabbed your thumb in Willoughby’s direction. “And who the hell is this?”
“My friend Willoughby. I asked him to bring his party to my house.” I patted Willoughby’s arm. “See what I mean? Cardigan.”
While Willoughby and I looked you over, you looked down at yourself—faded blue cable-knit cardigan, another recent purchase, definitely not Michael’s—then lifted your gaze back to mine. Your expression said, What’s that supposed to mean?
“You need to tell these kids to leave,” you told Willoughby.
“Hey, man. I just do what she tells me.”
“I’m telling you to make them leave.”
Willoughby shrugged. “Sorry. Can’t do that. We have a deal.”
“Elliot,” you said with a laugh, puffing your chest out, definitely losing control, “so help me God, if you don’t get these people out of here right now, I’m ringing your father.”
“Please do,” I said, making my voice smooth like glass. “I dare you.”
You drew back in surprise, finally understanding what my intentions were.
But just in case you doubted me, I added, “My dad needs to understand that you being here isn’t such a great idea. That you can’t handle it. That you can’t handle me.”
I lifted the whiskey bottle to my lips again, but you snatched it from my hand, your sharp gaze piercing mine. “I can handle you just fine. You’re not winning this time.”
“Watch me,” I said, hopping off the island. Your gaze swept over my body, making my skin prickle all over as I tugged the dress down. “Come on, Willoughby. Let’s dance.”
I grabbed Willoughby’s hand, pulling him behind me as I strutted off.
We danced near the sofas as Garland gazed down upon us with disapproval, and it was the first time I’d ever danced with a boy.
I loved the possessive feel of Willoughby’s hands on my hips, loved that his leg kept darting between my thighs and hitching my dress up higher, loved the hunger in his brown eyes as they roamed over my curves.
We were dancing especially close when I heard a familiar voice at my side.
“Hey,” Michael said, his arms folded across a white button-down. “What’s going on here?”
I sprang back, pushing Willoughby off me. “Shit. He called you over here, didn’t he?”
“Enough,” Michael said, taking my arm. “You need to end this right now.” He dragged me into the kitchen and handed me my phone. “Turn this music off and tell these people to leave.” His gaze dropped to my dress. “Also, what the hell are you wearing?”
I tugged the dress down my thighs, hyperaware of you leaning back against the counter. Your gaze dipped to the dress again, like Michael’s had, burning a hot trail all the way down to the high heels Tinsley had lent to me, too. I shifted next to Michael, self-conscious. “No. They can stay.”
Michael pulled out his phone. “Okay, I’ll text Nic. See what he thinks of this.”
“That’s what she wants,” you said.
“No,” Michael said, eyeing me. “She doesn’t want that.” He typed out a text to my dad, his thumb hovering over the little blue arrow when he was finished.
I shrugged. “Go for it.”
Michael narrowed his gaze. Deleted the text. Slipped the phone back into his pocket. “You’ve been very busy today, haven’t you?”
I folded my arms. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” he said.
While Michael and I stared at each other, you said, “Am I missing something here?”
“She was at my apartment earlier today,” Michael said. “She destroyed some stuff of Sienna’s.”
“Oh, no. That wasn’t me.”
“It was you,” Michael said. “Who else would it be?”
“Maybe you have a stalker or something.”
You glared at me. “She told me she was at school.”
“I was,” I lied. “Michael’s full of shit.”
“She does this,” Michael said. “She goes through my stuff—and then she lies about it.”
“I caught her in my room the other day,” you told him. “Looking at my laptop.”
“I bet she’s looked at more than that. She doesn’t understand boundaries.”
“Yes, I do,” I snapped.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You’re right,” Michael said, bringing his gaze back to mine. “She doesn’t respect boundaries. She thinks she can do whatever the hell she wants. Which is why I cleaned up the mess she made, and Sienna will never know it happened.”
Bristling, I shot him a death glare. Of course he would do something like that.
Michael shoved my own hand at me. “Turn the music off, then tell these kids to leave.”
“I don’t even know most of these people,” I said, marveling at the number of strangers who were gathered around my kitchen island.
Kids who definitely didn’t go to my school.
Kids with streaks in their hair, facial piercings, ripped fishnet stockings, and platform shoes.
They’d drained the bottle of whiskey from Michael’s apartment, along with many others.
An empty bottle of vodka lay on its side, clear liquid dripping down the island and splashing onto the floor.
“They’re friends of the boy,” you told Michael.
“Which boy?” Michael asked.
“The one she was in there dancing with,” you said.
When Michael left us to find Willoughby, I scowled at you, fuming. “I can’t believe you called Michael on me.”
“And I can’t believe you lied to me about where you were earlier,” you said, scowling right back. “That isn’t okay, Elliot.”
I dropped my gaze to the floor—I had to, more bothered than I wanted to be by the look of disappointment on your face.
Michael dragged Willoughby in by the back of the neck. “Who’s this guy, anyway?”
Willoughby winced as he attempted to pry Michael’s hand off him.