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Chapter Twenty-Six

Skyeand the guys walk in and when I glance at them, I can tell something is wrong. There’s apprehension in Skye’s face. Logan looks resigned and Liam seems mad as hell. I put my notebook on the coffee table and get up, my eyes darting from face to face. They’re acting like they’re ganging on me for some unknown reason.

When I stayed home to study for a final instead of going to lunch with Skye and the boys, the last thing I expected was for them to come home planning a fucking intervention. Especially when it’s for something I have no fucking clue about.

“What’s going on?”

“River, I—” Skye looks around, and I can tell she hates whatever she’s going to say next. She’s clearly upset. “We have to talk to you about something you probably won’t like.” She looks at Logan as if searching for reassurance.

“Maybe you two should discuss this alone,” he says.

“What’s going on?” I ask again.

Skye lets out a heavy sigh. Logan leans on the wall by the door, his hands in his jeans pockets, and Liam has his arms crossed, his legs apart as if standing at attention, an odd look on his face.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Liam replies to both of them and if possible stands even taller and stiffer.

“What’s going on?” I ask for the third time.

“When we were at the restaurant, we ran into Jon.” She looks nervous and intently at me. As if I should have some kind of reaction to her words. “Well, he didn’t see us, but we overheard his conversation.”

“You know nothing Jon asshole?” I frown. I hate the guy.

“Yes.”

“What about him?”

“He said he slept with you.”

“Come again?”

“He said he had sex with you, River—”

My body tenses. I’m getting angry now. I don’t like feeling like they’re backing me against a wall.

“I know what slept with someone means. What I don’t know is why you’re telling me this as if you believe him.”

I cross my arms defensively, much like Liam, I realize. Mrs. Spencer, my behavioral psychology professor, could have used me as a text book example in class. My body language says: Back the fuck off because I don’t like where this shit is going one bit.

Skye wrings her hands. She hates confrontation. She’s always the peacemaker and I can tell it’s hurting her to ask me this.

“Because of what he said.”

“What did he say? And when, please enlighten me”—my sarcasm is full-on now—“did Jon and I have this love affair?”

“He said about a year ago—”

I cut her off, “You do know I hate his guts, right? More than hate, I despise him. He’s a piece of shit and I wanted to throw up every time I saw him with you.”

Right then what Skye said hits me. About a year ago. Could it be? No, God no. Anyone but him. Not Jon. Not Jon. Not Jon. I can’t take it if it was Jon. There’s a mantra in my head and it keeps repeating, not Jon, not Jon, not Jon.

“I still don’t understand why you think I’d ever have sex with him. I’d rather fuck a hanger in my closet.”

“Because he knows, River.”

“He knows what?”

“He knows about the birthmark. He described what it looks like and he said it was in a place no one could see unless . . .” she trails off.