“No,” I order through clenched teeth. “Fuck no. Absolutely not.” I glare at Kiln, who’s pissed because of our altercation. I nod to him. Either he fixes it or I fucking will.
“You can’t stop me,” Georgie says coolly. “You’ve been arrested for weapons. For drugs. For speeding.”
She ticks off my laundry list of run-ins with the law.
“If…if…she’s angry with me,” she repeats again.
No, Cassandra isn’t angry with Georgie. She’s angry with me.
Once again, my dick is leading me into trouble.
“You don’t want to add sex with a minor to your record. You’ll never recover from it.”
I do what I do best and lash out. “Sex with a minor?” I snort. “As if. You put too much stock in your pussy if you think I wanted it. Great dick suck, but my cum’s in your stomach, not your cunt, and all DNA is washed away.”
Yes, I’m a fucking asshole.
“Bye, Sloane,” she whispers. “I’ve enjoyed my time with you.”
She knows I’m leaving, but there’s nothing more for me to say, so I offer her a hard stare and clench my jaw. Pinning me with an accusatory gaze, she runs to the door, rushing out without looking back.
I thrust my fingers through my hair, not amused by my audience.
Eyes steely, Kiln scratches his jaw. I just raise my hand, not wanting to hear fuck-all about this fuckhill of a mess I’m in.
Chapter Twelve
Georgie
Darkness surrounds me. I’m cold, naked, hungry, and aching. I haven’t had drugs in days, and food and water in hours. I think. Reality is nearly gone from me. Time is distorted. I might’ve been here for two days or two years.
I don’t know.
Mom has lost her mind. I ran from Sloane’s suite, humiliation burning in my belly. I couldn’t wait to get in the cab to take me to Crowell, to give him my virginity in exchange for claiming I’d been with him and Lana all night.
I didn’t care. But the cab was two cars behind Mom’s Mercedes. I couldn’t believe she was there. Not only hadn’t I told her where I was, but she was supposed to attend some Sunday event. She was always at some event.
Her look of disgust is one I’ll live with for the rest of my life. “How’d you find me?” I croaked when I’d buckled myself in.
“Your phone,” she bit out in frozen tones.
I’ve seen my mom in many moods in private. In public, her cool acceptance and civil indifference are her trademarks. But, I’ve never seen such cold anger from her, anywhere. Not even when she caught me at the studio with Sloane. She was angry and anything except indifferent. Also, she wasn’t so rigid with fury.
So I asked no more questions. Hoping she’d cool off. She didn’t. Once we arrived home, she just said, “follow me.”
I did. Straight to hell in the form of a little room I never knew existed in the house. Windowless. Dusty. Moldy. No furniture. Just a small, dingy bathroom and hard floors. She pushed me in and locked the door, throwing me into the darkness.
I’ve screamed my voice away. Overheated and exhausted, I beg and plead. Imaginary bugs—at least I hope—crawl all over me and makes me vomit.
As trembles seize me, I wrap my arms around my waist. The door creaks open and the glare of a flashlight hurts my eyes.
“Mom!”
Crying her name in desperation, I struggle to my feet, make my body cooperate to run to her and throw myself into her arms, so happy to see her. “I swear I’ll be good.” My voice is little more than a croak.
She shoves me away. “You’ve knocked over your food.”
Yesterday, maybe. Or the day before. My growling stomach reminds me of my hunger, but food can wait. I just want out of the darkness. I claw at my mom’s ankles.
“Please,” I sob. “I beg your forgiveness.” I don’t know what I’ve done to make her this angry. I’ll care later, when I’m in the light again. When I smell good and bugs aren’t crawling all over me. “Please, Mom. Please. Let me out.”
I’ve never implored anyone as much. If I survive, I can’t imagine I’ll ever do it again. If she wants me to die, I’ll gladly oblige, but I just want to feel the sun on my face one more time, and look at my framed poster of Sloane.
She kicks away my hold, the toe of her shoe hitting my cheek. That’s the only indication that she hears before her heels click away from me.
“You’ll be here just a few days, Georgiana,” she says tightly. It sounds as if she’s crying, too. “Tomorrow, I suggest you take more care if you don’t want to dehydrate. You’re an addict. You’re getting the drugs out of your system and sobering up.”
The door closes and I’m thrust back into the pit of blackness. She’s left me again.
Thoughts of my time with Sloane calms me for the next hours. His blue eyes. His dark hair. The way he shuddered against me when he came. If I pretend really hard, I smell him, too. Spice and musk, and it comforts me. It’s a sweet illusion.
His voice rings through my head. His pain. He seems all alone amidst a world of followers.