Page 5

"You're laughing," Tate says. "A little bit. You think it's kind of funny."

It is a little bit funny. But I'm pretty sure he's about to beat my ass, because I don't know what he expects me to do with that fucking cup .

"Relax," he says. "It's not for you. But you and Silas are going to go back downstairs, and I want you to switch this cup with Calvin's beer."

"What if he isn't drinking beer? This is not me questioning you; I'm genuinely looking for recourse."

"If he's not drinking beer, I'll settle for you feeding it to his piece-of-shit friend, Archer. If he's passed out, you may dump it on his crotch. Silas may assist you any way he sees fit."

"So, you want me to go back out there—in his jersey—and feed him your piss?"

He nods. "Correct."

Sighing heavily, I extend my hand, grimacing when I close it around the cup. "Oh, god. It's so warm."

The guys laugh again, and Tate heads for the window. "See you on the other side."

"I kind of hate you right now."

"Come on," Silas says. "Let's get it over with."

I follow him, frowning as we descend the staircase. "It's sloshing when I walk. I can't look at it."

Silas snorts. "Put it in your other hand, then. If you spill that shit on me, I'm screaming."

"Everyone's looking at me," I tell him once we get to the main level.

"Yeah, of course they are—you don't have any fucking pants on. Not so invisible now, are you?"

"Just…do you see him anywhere?"

"That dumb mother fucker," Silas says.

"What? Where is he?"

"Not Calvin," he says. "Tate. Look over by the front door."

I wouldn't have noticed him if Silas didn't point him out, but he's right. Tate is there, wearing Silas's sunglasses and hoodie with the hood pulled tightly over his face.

He couldn't resist watching.

"Calvin's over there," Silas says, nodding toward the far end of the room. I spot him on the couch next to Archer, but there's an empty space at his other side. Both are drinking keg beer from the same cups.

"Okay."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"No," I tell him. "I've got this."

I cross the room and sit beside Calvin, piss cup in hand.

"Hey," Calvin says. He takes another sip of his beer and then sets it on the coffee table in front of him. "You're Silas's friend without a name, and you're wearing my jersey."

"Yeah, I am," I say, putting on my best flirty tone. "You spilled beer all over me, remember? I had to change."

"Well, it looks sexy as fuck on you," he says.

"You think so?"

"Fuck yes."

"It looks even better from the back," I tease.

"Oh, yeah?" he says. "Let's see it then."

I lean forward, setting the piss cup right next to Calvin's beer before I stand up. I move in front of him, blocking his view of the table. "What do you think?"

"I think you're right. That looks damn good."

"I told you." Before I sit down, I grab Calvin's beer, leaving the piss cup in its place .

"You know what, though?" he asks. "I'm not sure I like that pink thong you're wearing. I think that would look better on my bedroom floor. What do you think?"

"I think we need to finish our drinks first."

"Deal," Calvin says, grabbing the piss cup from the table.

I freeze, hoping he doesn't notice how warm it is.

"Cheers," he says.

My heart pounds as he brings the cup to his lips. He tilts his head back—way back, like you would if you planned to chug the whole thing. I see it in his eyes the moment it hits the back of his throat. He drops the cup into his lap, spilling the rest, and I quickly jump back before it sprays from his mouth, all over the table and his friend.

"Calvin, what the fuck?!" Archer shouts.

"Oh, my god!" Calvin shrieks, dry heaving as he leaps onto his feet and tears his shirt over his head. He tosses it aside and then drops to his knees, vomiting onto the carpet.

I should be getting out of here, but it's like a train wreck I can't look away from.

Silas calls my name, snapping me out of it, and I race toward the door, following him and Tate to the car.

"Getinthebackgetinthebackgetintheback," Silas repeats until we get to the vehicle. "And stay down."

Tires screeching, we pull away from the house just as Calvin runs outside. "Silas, you fucker!" he shouts after the vehicle. "I'm going to kill your friend!"

It's only after we're a few blocks away from the house that it registers that I'm lying on top of Tate in the backseat. He threads his fingers into my hair, his thumb rubbing small circles against the skin right behind my ear.

"Well?" he prompts. "Was I right?"

I swallow a lump in my throat. It's not hard to figure out what someone's kinks are. "Right about what?"

"Did you have fun?"

I smile, relieved. "Yeah. I had fun."

And I did have fun. I'll take any chance to shit on shitty people that I can. I'm glad he drank piss. I wonder if he'll recognize me the next time he sees me.

I awkwardly rest my head against his chest until we pull into the parking lot and then quickly sit up, smoothing down the jersey before exiting the vehicle and heading for the staircase.

"What's your mom going to say when you walk in wearing that?" Tate laughs.

"She's not there," I tell him. "She's been working nights all week."

He and Silas exchange a look.

"Can we come in, then?" Tate asks.

I shrug. "Sure."

We step into the living room. The lights are off in my apartment, but the TV is still on, playing the same Hoarders marathon my mom had been watching before she left for work.

"I fucking hate this show," Silas says. "Sets my OCD on fire."

"You can change it," I say, sinking into the sofa. The second I lie down, my eyes are heavy. "Will you make me one?"

"One what?" Tate asks.

"A fake ID."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Does it matter? I want one."

"Fine," Tate says. "What do you want your name to be?"

"I don't care. Make it something really girly, though. I'm tired of seeing the disappointment on people's faces when I show up for job interviews, and they realize I'm a girl."

Tate scoffs. "That doesn't happen."

"Yeah, it does."

"Okay, what about Delilah from New York City?" Tate suggests.

"Because you look so pretty," Silas adds.

I scoff. "Yeah, right. Delilah is fine, though. I like it," I tell them, letting my eyes close.

"Times Square can't shine as bright as you, baby," Tate says.

"Stop."

I must pass out because their laughter is the last thing I remember, and when I open my eyes again, the television is off. For a second, I think I'm alone, but then I hear a loud groan.

"Fuck, that feels good," Tate rasps softly. "Go faster. I'm so fucking close."

Enough light comes in through the front window for me to see Tate sitting on the other sofa, his legs spread, biting his lower lip while Silas pumps his hard dick in his hand.

I freeze. What do I do now? I don't think they've noticed I'm awake. Should I leave the room? Close my eyes?

I knew this about Tate—I knew he was bisexual; I didn't think Silas was. And even if he was, I wouldn't have thought they'd be together like this. Is it the first time? Does Mia know?

But before I can close my eyes, Tate catches me watching. "It's okay, Noah," Tate groans. "I want you to watch me come."

Silas stops what he's doing for about half a second, his hooded gaze meeting my eyes before he goes back to work, sliding his fist up and down Tate's cock.

I quickly look away before Tate says, "We're still playing the game, Noah. You should obey."

Logically, I know I don't have to. Still, I turn back and watch. Silas picks up his pace, working every inch of his erect cock from base to tip. I squeeze my thighs together tightly, my underwear soaked by the time cum explodes from the tip all over Tate's chest and drips down Silas's fist.

Tate grips the back of the couch in his hands and throws his head back, moaning while Silas pumps it out of him.

Once he finishes, Tate removes his shirt, using it to wipe himself clean before adjusting his pants and walking toward me. He pushes my legs apart before sitting between them.

"We're not playing anymore," he says, sliding his hand up the inside of my thigh. "You can tell me to stop if you want."

Heart pounding, I say nothing, but let my legs fall open wider. He hooks his fingers inside my underwear and pulls them to the side.

"God damn, Noah," he says, running his fingers up and down my wet slit before dipping two inside me. "You're soaked."

"Fuck!" I gasp.

"Such a pretty pussy," he says, slowly moving his fingers in and out of me. "Isn't it, Silas?"

"Mmhmm."

My cheeks flush as my breath comes short. I almost forgot—I look over Tate's shoulder and find Silas laid back, stroking his own dick in his hand while he watches.

Shit. Shit, this is so fucked up.

So, why does it feel so good?

Tate's thumb finds my clit, and my legs shake. The sound that comes out of me…fuck, I'm embarrassed. I wasn't expecting th at.

It's too much. I try to snap my legs closed, but Tate's hand stops me.

"Shh, it's okay," he says. His free hand runs over my chest and up my neck, his thumb rubbing circles on that place behind my ear again. "Just relax. Let me take care of you."

I nod and close my eyes while he continues fucking me with his fingers. Then, his mouth is on mine, kissing me.

It's better than all the times I've imagined it in my head. Too desperately, I kiss him back, wrapping my arms around his body when his tongue slides past my lips. I suck his bottom lip into my mouth, finally knowing what it feels like to have those lip rings between my teeth; I've thought about it so many times.

And then the realization dawns on me—we're crossing that line. I'm kissing my best friend's twin brother. This is bad.

I bury a moan into his lips when he curls his fingers inside me, and then I can't think. My mind goes blank as the orgasm builds until it rips through me. I dig my nails into Tate's back as my entire body shudders, burying a moan against his lips. His fingers keep working until I'm an overstimulated, wet, shaking mess.

"Good girl," he says. "You did so good tonight." He brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean. "You taste good, too."

My face flushes with embarrassment. "Tate…"

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about. Let me ask you a question."

"Um…okay," I say, still breathless.

"You told Silas that you know what to do with your mouth."

I stare back at him, confused.

"That's the question, Noah."

I nod slowly .

"I think you should show him," Tate says. "I think he'd appreciate your help."

I glance at Silas, still stroking his cock on the other couch, and swallow hard before answering. "Okay."

Tate sits up so that I can get out from under him.

"Oh, and Noah?" Tate adds. "We like it when you crawl."

I quickly sit up in bed, gasping for air.

It's been a year. An entire year, and I still have to worry that every time I close my eyes, I'll be haunted by memories of that summer until I open them again. If I'd have known they'd ruin me so completely—so deeply that even reminiscing about the hurt feels better than anyone else has made me feel since—I never would have let it happen.

But I didn't know any better. When you don't know better, toxic can feel like passion. At least it's loud. At least it's better than nothing.

After a week of hateful texts, Mia never spoke to me again and blocked me on all social media. She sent me one last message to reiterate what she thought of me and that I was dead to her before going dark.

And I did what she asked. I stayed away. I made sure she never had to see me again, even though I was in crippling pain and really, really fucking needed a friend.

I returned the favor a few days later when I blocked Tate and Silas.

I had to let them all go; I thought if I did, I'd be able to move on. Silas texted me for a while, and it was nice, but he wanted things to go back to normal with the three of us. We'd talk, and he'd tell me how much he wanted to see me and how much Tate missed me.

When Tate messaged me, it wasn't so nice. He'd tell me to get over it, that it wasn't a big deal, and I needed to stop being childish.

And I've been lonely—so lonely since. I've made new friends, I'm no longer a house plant at school and at parties, my classes at Holbridge were challenging and interesting, and still, nothing helps. I feel like I'm walking around with a gaping hole in the center of my chest—a hungry, dark void desperately trying to make itself whole again, but seems to sate it.

I'm surprised no one notices it—the hole, I mean. Granted, some days are far worse than others, but it's always there. No one stops to point it out; no one pulls me aside at school and says, My god, Noah. What is that thing, and why can I see right through you?

And so, I never say, Oh, that? That's the place where all the things that made me me used to go, but I lost them, and I don't know how to put them back.

Because no one really knows me. I can't say he didn't warn me.

And it's been far worse since they buried Mia in July, just two months after their mother died.

I'm not sure how it happened, but somehow, I ended up just outside it all, an unwilling audience with a front-row seat to the events that led Mia to take her own life.

But I didn't touch it. I didn't realize it until it was already too late. Not that I could have done anything, anyway .

I guess that's a big part of why I'm sleeping past three in the afternoon, my body moving slower and heavier than usual with the weight of all that's burrowed under my skin. It's crushing me now.

According to my mom, Silas and Tate are missing now. Silas's mom called her last week, thinking I might have seen them, and said she'd reported them missing to police. But they packed bags and took Silas's car, so the police ruled them runaways, and adults are allowed to run away if they want to.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and check my messages. There's a drunk text from Leo, a former classmate I hooked up with a couple of weeks ago, one from Brielle asking what time I'll be over today, and a DM from a faceless Instagram account around four in the morning with a username that's only a string of letters.

I know it's from Tate before I open it. It didn't take long after I blocked him for his messages to turn hateful. They never stopped, but they slowed down…until recently.

That's why I don't spend any time worried about what happened to them. If Tate's still sending me hate mail, he's just fine.

I HOPE YOU CAN'T SLEEP AT NIGHT, YOU EVIL HEARTLESS BITCH.

Eh. I've had worse. And I don't sleep at night—not without seeing him.

Slowly, I force myself to sit up and get out of bed. My new bedroom is bigger than the main living space in my old apartment, with dark hardwood floors and modern furniture decorated in white, yellow, and grey. It's not what I would have picked for myself, of course, but that didn't really matter. This place was only ever meant to be temporary. I've always felt kind of like a visitor, and that's only more true now with most of my things in boxes again. Only this time, I'm leaving for college.

As I cross the room toward my bathroom, Paul's voice roars from downstairs, causing me to jump. Not long after, I hear a crash—maybe glass breaking—and my mom cries.

Well, I'm supposed to leave for college. If I can bring myself to leave her here with him.

Silas was right about Paul, but it took a lot longer for Paul to prove him right than I expected. It was slow—slow enough that I thought it wouldn't happen. He was loud; he liked to yell and complain, and I thought that was all it was. He bought me a car, paid for dental implants to fix my top teeth, and took us to Disneyland in the fall.

Christmas came and went with an engagement announcement. They eloped in Vegas the following month and looked happy in the pictures.

The first bruises and busted lips came after Valentine's Day. They tried to keep it a secret for a while—until Paul hit her in front of me for the first time—and then I guess they just figured, why bother?

She screams, pleading with him to stop, apologizing for whatever he thinks she's done to deserve it this time, and I wipe tears away from my eyes. I turn on my music to drown out the yelling downstairs while I fix my hair and apply makeup, then I tie on a white bikini, pull on a pair of denim shorts, step into my sandals, and cautiously step out of the room, checking to make sure the yelling has stopped before heading downstairs.

My mom is kneeling in the kitchen, sweeping the remnants of a shattered picture frame onto a dustpan.

"Mom?"

She looks up with empty, glazed-over eyes. They've been that way for a while; it's the same look she has in photos I've seen of her in early adulthood—when she was using.

Not that I could blame her if she's doing it again.

"How am I supposed to leave you here?" I whisper, shaking my head. "We should leave…together."

She scoffs. "What are you talking about? Why would I leave? I don't want to leave."

"It's only going to get worse."

"Shut up," she snaps. "You don't know what you're talking about. I love him. You don't know anything about marriage or relationships or how any of this…real-life stuff works, so just stop." Lowering her voice, she adds, "And what if he hears you?"

I think about the day we moved out again—about the car ride and the lecture she gave me about how people who care about you should and shouldn't treat you. I've said the same thing to her several times since, but like me, I don't think she's ever known how love is supposed to look.

But surely, she knows it's not this, either.

"You're only proving my point," I hiss. "I can' t go to college."

"You have to go," she says. "He's paying for it. And to be honest, you only make things worse around here with all of your judgment and complaining."

She empties the dustpan into the garbage just as Paul steps out of his office, passing me on his way into the kitchen.

"Can I make you some lunch, honey?" my mom asks him.

"No. I'll just—fuck!" he screams.

We both jump back, a visceral reaction to what normally comes next.

He lifts his right foot, inspecting the bottom and pulls out a bloody shard of glass. "God damn it, Kathy!" he shouts, tossing it in her direction. "I told you to clean this shit up."

He backhands her already-bruised face, sending her into the countertop and then onto the floor. She covers her head with her arms as he pummels her with his fists before kicking her over, and she curls into a ball on the tile. "You're lucky I don't need fucking stitches!"

"Stop!" I yell, stepping between them. "Leave her alone!"

Paul grabs my arm, squeezing hard, digging his fingers into my flesh before pushing me backward; the sharp edge of the marble countertop digs into my ribs, and I scream.

"You're not going to tell me what to do in my own fucking house," he says. "You know what you both are? You're fucking ungrateful. Clean all of this up, and then, yes, you can make me lunch."

My mother pulls herself to her feet as he leaves. "What is wrong with you?" she asks .

"With me? I—"

"Stop!" she yells. "You need to mind your own business and stay out of my marriage."

"He's going to kill you," I hiss through clenched teeth. "And you're going to make me watch it…unless we leave."

She takes a step toward me, then brings her hand back and slaps me hard across my face.

Shocked, all I can do is stare back at her, mouth gaping.

"You're an adult, Noah. Don't make me choose between you and my husband; I don't think you'll like what I decide. Now get the fuck out of my house."

"What? But—"

"Now!"

Tears stinging my eyes, I snatch my keys from the hook by the front door and storm out, slamming it behind me. Then I climb into my white BMW, back out of the driveway, and head for Brielle's lake house. It's kind of a farewell party for the group I fell into this year; we're going to hang out here, swimming and drinking all day, and then head down to the carnival on the lake in the evening—one last party before we all go our separate ways, though Brielle and I are supposed to be roommates next year.

After what happened with Mia, I don't feel so good about that anymore.

I pull into the driveway about forty-five minutes later. There's a gate with a call box and a wrought iron fence around the secluded property. I stop and grab my phone so I can look for the gate code she texted me earlier.

When I do, I have two new messages from Paul.

PAUL Glad you're finally learning how things work around here.

The second is a video, starting with a black screen. "What the fuck…" I mutter to myself before pushing play.

He sent me a video of my mom…giving him a blow job.

"Jesus Christ!"

I drop the phone as soon as I realize what I'm looking at, but the bluetooth connects to my car, and the audio roars through the speakers.

"Look at the camera and say hi to Noah…" Paul's voice says.

With shaky hands, I reach forward and turn the volume all the way down just as my mom's gargled voice says my name. I swallow back bile, and then close my eyes, taking a moment to gather myself after being fucking violated.

I'm not sure how long I stay there like that, but at some point, Leo must have pulled in behind me, because I jump when I hear his voice through the window.

"Hey, Noah!"

"Shit," I mutter. "I mean…hey. Sorry, I'm in the way, huh?"

"No worries," he says. "Brielle sent me the code—I've got you."

He turns and types the numbers into the box, and then it buzzes before the gates swing open.

"Thanks."

"No problem. See you in there. "

Leo walks back to his truck, and I put my car in drive, pulling through the gate and up to the house. We park side by side and end up walking in together.

I leave my phone in the car. I can't even bring myself to touch it now, as if it's radioactive.

"Have you been here before?" Leo asks.

Small talk. Cool.

"No, I haven't. You?"

"Oh, yeah," he says. "We do this every year." He opens the front door, ushering me into the house with a hand on the small of my back. "They're probably all out by the pool; I'll show you where it is."

"Cool."

"Sorry about that text last night," he says as we step out into the backyard.

"Oh, yeah. It's no big deal. I was just asleep."

"Yeah, I figured. But I am glad we get to hang out again."

"Noah!" Brielle shouts from the other side of the pool.

"Hey!" I call back, using the opportunity to escape the conversation.

It's not that there's anything wrong with Leo. In some ways, he reminds me of Silas. He's smart, attractive, and a wide receiver on the football team. If I'm being honest, that's probably why I slept with him. And if I'm being even more honest, it's why I'll probably end up sleeping with him again tonight, too.

But in all the ways that matter, he's nothing like Silas. He doesn't get me even when I'm quiet the way Silas did. He doesn't know what I mean when I say harder. And I haven't come close to finding anything that even temporarily fills that void, either.

"Did you guys come here together?" Brielle asks. "Are you like…a couple now?"

"What? No. We just pulled up at the same time."

"Okay, just checking. I don't know why you're so defensive about it. Do you want a drink? We have white wine coolers in here," she says, gesturing to the cooler beside her. "And there's vodka and beer inside. I know you prefer whiskey, but my parents only allow clear drinks in the house."

"It's fine—I'll have a wine cooler. Thanks."

I grab one and sit beside her at the edge of the pool. At my other side, a phone buzzes. My heart skips a beat before I realize it isn't mine, and when I look over, the background lights up with a photo of Kendall and Zach kissing. Kendall is in the water, floating on a raft opposite of Alexis, and Zach is on the other side of the deck, talking to Leo and Josh.

I may not be in those apartments with my old friends anymore, but I never stopped playing games.

After ensuring no one is looking, I use one finger to slide Kendall's phone forward until it falls into the pool. The music outside is loud enough to mask the plopping sound it makes when it hits the water. I sit back, satisfied that no one noticed, and it'll probably sit there for a while and be completely trashed by the time she fishes it out.

Sometimes, I'm their friend, but sometimes, I'm like the abandoned children from my grandmother's creepy bedtime story, playing cruel jokes on them and waiting for someone to get mad enough to notice it's been me the whole time and do something about it.

But I'm not a child, and I don't want to eat them. I just want a little taste of their pain, something to temporarily fill that hole. I want to eat the looks on their faces.

And Kendall deserves so much worse.

"Where's my phone?" she asks when she joins us ten minutes later. "Has anyone seen my phone? I swear it was right here."

I shrug. "No. I haven't seen it."

I bring my drink to my lips to hide my smile.