“No one is on my side,” I whisper, meeting her eyes.

It only lasts the span of a breath, but she holds my gaze and I stop breathing, her blonde hair and blue eyes the only thing I see before she’s on me. Her mouth melts into mine, and I only hesitate a moment before I slide my arms around her.

God…

I grip her slim waist, pressing my body into hers, and her groan vibrates down my throat as I squeeze my eyes shut and taste the heat on her breath. Intoxicated.

Or would you wish I was in your room instead? A voice carries me away.

Taking her face in one hand, I spin her around and back her into the wall, her long, silky hair draping down her back, across to tickle my other hand.

I thread her hair through my fingers, feeling its soft silkiness, and nibble her mouth as a moan escapes me.

“Liv,” she begs, her mouth trailing across my cheek and down my neck as she grinds into me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping her hair at her scalp, the urge to go too hard overcoming me. God, I can’t fucking stop. I take her throat in my hand and force her head back, sucking and biting her lips and relishing the feel of her body in my hands.

I’ll show her what she gets for treating me like her fucking servant. For sabotaging all our team’s hard work, and for never being kind to me.

And for letting that punk-ass frat boy touch her. What the hell does she see in him? He has an alarming array of pastel-colored Polo shirts, because he needs to let everyone know he’s a white-as-fuck, roofie-jungle-juice-making Chad.

I kiss her hard, my blood boiling down my arms.

She whimpers, and I’m not sure if it’s pleasure or pain. “Liv.”

“Don’t talk.” I pull away and take her hand. “Get in the car.”

I nod toward Dallas’s Mustang and advance on her as she backs up toward it. Her steps are slow, as if she’s unsure, but her chest rises and falls, and I know she wants it.

I don’t look at her face.

The door opens, I climb in the seat after her, and close the door, pulling her into my arms.

“We’ll be seen,” she murmurs against my lips.

I press my forehead to hers, running my thumb over her bottom lip and almost smelling that perfume that made me want to bury my nose in her skin the first time I saw her. “Sanoa is where secrets go to breathe,” I tell her.

No one cares what we do here. Here, you can have me all you want.

“You won’t tell anyone?” she asks.

Megan’s worried about losing her job for fucking around with a student.

The girl in my head is worried about her boyfriend discovering what really makes her come.

“I won’t tell anyone,” I say.

And I pull her in, slipping my tongue into her mouth and my hand up her skirt.

She moans, the pulse in her neck throbbing against my fingers as she squirms.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” she tells me.

I pause, the spell starting to break. “Don’t say that.” I tip her chin down and force her eyes to me. “Say you hate me. Tell me to stop.”

“But I…”

“Say it.” I nudge her back against the door and hover over her. “Call me swamp trash and tell me to stop.”

I dive into her neck as she stutters and tries to find the words that will please me, but she’s confused.

“Say it.” I grab the back of her neck, squeezing my eyes shut and rubbing her through her panties.

“Stop,” she gasps. “I hate you, you fucking trash. I hate you.”

I find her clit through the fabric, rubbing circles and hearing her moan again as she opens her legs wider.

“Yeah?” I lick her mouth. “But you’re so wet. You don’t want this?”

And I slip my finger inside, caressing her bare skin.

She gasps.

“Or this?” I taunt, sliding another one in.

“Stop.” She kisses me back, breathing hard. “Ah, stop. No.”

Mmm, no.

And all the while I’m trembling as she grabs for me and holds me close and wants me in our secret place where no one can see us, because I want it to be real, too. I want Clay Collins in this fucking car and to love me so much she can’t stand it.

Just so I won’t be alone anymore.

That’s how pathetic I am. Fantasizing over a straight girl who believes I deserve nothing good in this world, because I think hate-fucking her would make me feel powerful. Because I don’t love her and I don’t like her, but I feel something about her, and whatever it is, it’s strong, and I need it. I want to throw her down and put my teeth on her and feel hers on me, but at the end, make her come and kiss her mouth and let her finally know that there was one nice memory of me.

Oh, yeah. There was one.

I start to shake, and I can’t catch my breath. I growl, pulling off Martelle and sit back in the seat, not sure if I’m angry for using her, or disgusted that I tried to make her play the role of someone who will never deserve me.

There’s no love here, but that didn’t matter, did it? The hate turned me on. Jesus, I’m fucked up.

“Olivia?” I hear the leather seat grind under her weight as she sits up.

She reaches for me, but I pull away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done this. This was wrong.”

I don’t know why it’s wrong. It feels good. Clay probably let that jackass fuck her, and I know she doesn’t love him, so why do I feel guilty?

Megan moves in closer. “Are you okay?”

But I swing open the door and climb out. “It’s not your fault,” I tell her, but I can’t get away from her fast enough. “I’ll see you at school.”

And I leave the door open for her, quickly escaping back into Mariette’s. The embarrassment settles over me of what she must think, but there’s nothing I can do about it. She won’t talk. I’m a student—and still technically a minor. I’m safe.

I slip into the employee restroom on the opposite wall to wash my hands and splash some water on my face, yanking two paper towels out of the dispenser.

I hold my eyes in the mirror as a tornado whirls around me that I can’t seem to stop. Have some damn control. You’re better than this.

It’s just the pressure. The play and college and Clay… Lots at once.

And Callum. I’m just tired of taking it.

I swing open the door and walk through the kitchen, into the restaurant and around the divider. I stop at Callum’s table, Becks and Krisjen sitting in the booth opposite of him and Milo. There’s a round of sodas in front of everyone, and a basket of fries in the middle.

“You’re not welcome here,” I remind them calmly. “Not in the Bay.”

They know this.

Callum looks up, a gleam in his eyes as he cocks his head. “We just want to eat,” he tells me. “I hear your Cuban sandwich is the best around.”

“Mariette?” I call out, pulling my blade out of my back pocket and leaving it sheathed at my side. “This table wants their order to go.”

Callum’s eyes drop to the switchblade, trying to hold back his smile. “I would think you’d like to see more business in your neighborhood.” He sighs. “I would think my understudy would be more grateful.”

Oh, yes. I’m grateful for the scraps. Thanks for reminding me that nothing good comes unless by the good graces of the rich and beautiful.