Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
“I imagine a lot,” I answer, glumly moving my fork around my plate. I don’t have much of an appetite. I should probably eat, though. Might as well get expelled on a full stomach.
Last night was…rough.
It was fucking rough.
The only silver lining is that Headmaster Tresscott didn’t burst in when Casey had my dick in her mouth.
For a moment there, I genuinely thought he was going to lay a hand on me. He had the eyes of a feral animal whose territory you’d just stumbled upon. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the dude’s hands had turned into wolverine claws and he shredded me to pieces. Somehow, he’d managed to restrain himself, his jaw so tight, it looked like his face was about to crack in half.
His voice was deathly cold, eerie almost, as he ordered me to get out of Casey’s bedroom and proceeded to march me downstairs. Meanwhile, Casey was hurrying after us, trying to plead my case, blurting out that it was her fault, she’d invited me over because of a nightmare, that I was only being a good friend.
It all fell on deaf ears. The headmaster threw open the front door and jabbed his finger in the air, commanding I get the fuck out.
“He seriously dropped an f-bomb?” Silas says, finally joining the conversation while I’m relating everything that went down.
“Yeah, he did.” I don’t spare Silas a glance, but I can’t go as far as to ignore him altogether.
Lawson leans back in his chair, arms locked behind his head. “All right, what kind of damage are we talking about here? Pants undone?”
“Nope. Sweatpants. Firmly secured around my waist.”
“Shirt?” Silas asks.
“I was fully dressed,” I tell them. “Only thing I didn’t have on was shoes. I threw those out the window.”
Lawson snickers. “Nice.” He purses his lips. “What about the bed? Sheets messed up? Covered in come?”
I wince. “Sheets and blanket sort of in disarray, but it didn’t look like someone just got fucked on them.”
“And did they?”
“Huh?”
“Did someone get fucked on them?” Lawson clarifies, expression flickering with humor.
“No,” I say firmly. “Nothing happened.” I pause. “Sort of.”
“Nothing sort of happened?” Silas sounds amused.
“Exactly,” I reply before biting into a piece of toast.
As I chew, a rush of dread once again fills my chest, ballooning up until it’s all I feel. This isn’t going to end well for me. Casey texted this morning assuring me she was working on her dad to go light on my punishment, but I’m not holding out hope. The man’s always been relentlessly overprotective of his daughters. It’s a known fact that if you mess around with them behind his back, you get expelled.
This past spring, I had to ask his permission to even maintain a friendship with Casey. Had to jump through hoops just to earn walking-the-dogs-away-from-the-security-cameras privileges. Maybe if I’d asked him ahead of time to take her on a date—an idea he would’ve shot down like a well-trained sniper—he might have shown me some grace. He allowed Sloane to date Duke, after all. And now RJ. But Sloane isn’t Casey. In the headmaster’s eyes, no Sandover delinquent is allowed to have any romantic notions about his precious baby girl.
So…yeah. I should probably start packing.
As if on cue, my phone lights up with a text from RJ.
RJ: Get back here. Now.
Shit. I assume one of Tresscott’s minions is at my door with a summons to his office, but then RJ throws a curveball.
RJ: Got a message from Gabe.
Holy shit. Finally.
For a second, I’m relieved. Until I realize RJ wouldn’t send out the 911 if it was good news. I grab the phone and type.
Me: What’s it say?
RJ: Just get back here.
I scrape back my chair and pick up my half-empty tray. There’s no way I’m finishing this meal now. My appetite went from nonexistent to never-coming-back.
“Gotta go,” I say. “I want to shower and change before I face the music. I assume I’ll be summoned any minute now.”
“I’ll pray for you,” Lawson drawls.
Silas doesn’t even look up from his phone. Ride or die, this one.
A dozen disastrous scenarios scramble through my mind as I leave the dining hall. What if Gabe confessed? Or he’s pointed the finger at someone else? RJ’s message was worse than cryptic, and it puts crazy ideas in my head. Like, is there a world in which Gabe throws me under the bus for the whole thing? Or what if he introduces a new suspect to the mix? A fleeting image of Silas in that car next to Casey flickers in my mind, but I dismiss it quickly. Silas was with Amy all night, and there’s just no way. I’m sure.
Lawson maybe? No, I remember Silas saying the two of them had been searching for Casey together. And nobody mentioned noticing that Lawson, or Silas for that matter, were wet. If one of them were driving the car, at least the bottom half of their bodies would have been wet from wading back to shore.