Page 35 of Sour Lollipops and Sweet Nightmares (The Society #1)

Georgia

A ll my life, I felt like an outsider observing the rest of humanity.

I wasn’t the girl people noticed or thought about.

I wasn’t even known as the smart girl. I wasn’t known at all.

I was just there, like an ornament placed on the shelf and forgotten about, and that was okay with me because I didn’t need anyone’s acceptance. I was sure of myself.

Then I came to Renfrew.

Now, I wasn’t sure of anything. According to my grandma, college was supposed to be the place where I came into my own. Instead, I was more confused than I was during puberty.

I found myself questioning every response, in case I misled someone, wondering who Jerry was, why I hugged Levi, whether there really had been writing on my mirror, whether Rachel wanted something from me, and how much Ravi knew about unconformities.

It was hard enough to keep my own thoughts straight, let alone deal with everything else floating around my mind.

And the most confusing thing of all was Issac Alexander Kratz.

How did I know his middle name? Because I looked him up.

Normally, I avoid social media and online gossip, yet last night I spent hours scouring the internet.

For a family that had so much influence, there was surprisingly little information available. All I got was Issac’s middle name, birthday, and some pictures of him at various events. That seemed odd to me. Everyone around the world knew Kratz Enterprises' name, so there should’ve been more to find.

At first, I thought maybe Issac’s family were private people—I didn’t have a presence online—but the results were the same for Levi, Slater, and Ravi. It was weird to say the least. Kash and his brothers were everywhere.

I couldn’t even finish typing Murphy into the search bar without one of their pictures popping up. Yet there was next to nothing on Levi, who was literal royalty. It didn’t make sense.

Then again, a lot didn’t make sense lately. Things like why a girl like Rachel insisted on being my friend, and how she talked me into going to a frat party.

“Okay…” Rachel stepped back, rolled her eyes down me and back up again. “This works, but it’s missing something.”

Yeah, more coverage. I could see my cleavage. Did she have to pick this shirt? The spaghetti straps and low-cut neckline made me feel exposed. So did the jeans Rachel brought over that somehow fit like a glove.

“Do you have high heels?”

Eww. “No.”

“Why not?” She asked as if my not having high heels were the most absurd thing she’d ever heard.

“Because I like my feet.” That and I had absolutely no balance in them.

Rachel rolled her eyes. “They aren’t that bad once you get used to them. Don’t you want a little more height?”

“Not if it means I have to wear high heels.” Mom made me wear a pair to the one and only school dance I went to. There wasn’t a lot of dancing, although I did fracture my ankle walking up the stairs.

“Ugh, alright, you can wear sandals then.”

That was all fine and dandy, but… “What sandals?”

Her mouth dropped as she stared at me. “You don’t have sandals?”

“No.” Should I?

“What do you wear in the summer?”

“Shoes.”

“Fine,” she sighed and walked into the bathroom. “I guess shoes will have to work.”

Thank God that was over. If she made me change my outfit one more time, I was going to beat my head against the wall. I think Rachel made me try on every item of clothing I had at least three times. Pants, skirts, and shirts littered my bedroom floor. It looked like a bomb exploded in my closet.

No social gathering was worth this kind of effort. Especially not a frat party that I didn’t even want to go to. However, it seemed as if girls never let their friends go out alone. At least according to Rachel.

While I could see the safety in numbers thing applying to places where alcohol flowed and everyone consumed it, I had no desire to be Rachel’s safety. However, I owed her for pulling me out of the library yesterday, so I agreed.

Georgia is mine.

Those words had been haunting my mind ever since Issac said them.

What did he mean by that? The obvious answer was something in a romantic context, which was ridiculous.

I was someone to torment for Issac. Then again, he did assault me, but he had done absolutely nothing to indicate attraction since. So, what did “mine” mean?

The possibilities were terrifying, which would’ve been something I could’ve dealt with if I could’ve stopped thinking about it. But I couldn’t. No matter how much I tried to occupy my mind with other topics, those three words would not stop echoing in my mind.

Georgia is mine.

It got so bad that at one point, I almost convinced myself I had misheard him. That was the only thing that made sense. It was a tense moment with a lot going on. Rachel and I were trying to sneak away from the two angry men who were about to erupt in a chaos of violence.

I couldn’t have possibly paid attention to everything. When someone’s heart is pounding with adrenaline and fear like that, it is easy to mishear or misinterpret things.

Mind you, you could make an argument for the opposite. Issac was a threat, and therefore, my senses were on high alert around him. In a situation like that, attention to detail could very well be the key to survival.

When someone was in a room with a bomb, they didn’t suddenly stop watching the timer tick down. Issac was closer to a serial killer than a bomb, but the logic still applied.

“Time for makeup,” Rachel sang while coming out of the bathroom with my small cosmetic pouch.

I wished logic applied to her.

“I don’t need makeup,” I argued.

“No one needs makeup, but you wouldn’t wear an outfit without accessories, would you?”

Why, yes. Yes, I would. I didn’t even know what classified as accessories.

“By the way, green’s your color,” she nodded at my top. “You should wear it more.”

I hated this shirt. The color was okay—it was a little darker than my eyes—but it was too thin. Whoever thought satin a good material to make clothes out of had never experienced a winter blizzard.

“I usually wear a cardigan with this shirt…”

“No,” Rachel wagged her finger at me. “I did not buy you those fantastic jeans for you to cover your ass with a sweater.”

She bought me these jeans? Great. Now, I couldn’t complain about them, that would be rude. This friend stuff was a pain in the ass. Also… “Cardigans cover your torso, not your butt.”

“When they’re two sizes too large—like yours—they cover everything.”

It was worth a shot. “Can I at least wear a coat?”

“Do you have one that fits properly?”

“Define properly.”

She gave me a side eye, which pretty much said no to my request for a coat.

“Ugh,” I groaned. “That’s not fair. Nothing fits me properly.”

“Those jeans do.”

Just because she found some magical store that catered to women who were an inch shy of five feet, didn’t mean that I shouldn’t be allowed to wear a jacket.

Rachel placed her hand on her cocked hip. “Are you going to keep complaining, or are you going to let me do your makeup?”

I openly groaned my objection.

“Suck it up, buttercup,” Rachel sang. “Now sit down.”

Grumbling under my breath, I accepted my fate and dropped my butt on the foot of the bed.

She had already done my hair, wasn’t that enough? Ponytail was the only style I knew. Then Rachel came along and made my hair all curly, bouncy, and extra shiny. It was so soft I couldn’t stop touching it. Curse Rachel and her excellent styling skills.

Rachel sat on the bed next to me and started digging through my cosmetic pouch. Outward appearance was never high on my list, but I did have to admit that Rachel looked fantastic. The cocktail dress she wore was simple and pretty, and her makeup wasn’t overdone, which surprised me.

I thought she was the kind of girl who would go all out for a party. I could do without the three fake gems she had near the corners of her eyes, but they were cute.

“Um, Georgia…” Rachel looked up at me. “Where’s all your makeup?”

“Right there.” I nodded at the makeup pouch in her hands.

“The only things in here are mascara, blush, and lip gloss.”

“Yeah,” I nodded.

Her brow arched. “You can’t be serious. This is all you have?”

“That’s more than I wanted.” The only thing I bought was the lip gloss. No one liked chapped lips. Mom added the mascara and blush.

“It’s okay, we can work with this,” Rachel said, although I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or herself. “I have a few things in my purse.”

Her definition of a few and mine were very different. She pulled out brushes, various containers, a thing that looked like scissors on one end with weird crescent-shaped clamps on the other, and an egg-shaped sponge thing that she used to pat stuff on my face.

I sat there while Rachel did her thing. The look on her face was oddly fascinating.

We hadn’t known each other for very long, but I had learned a few things about her.

She talked more than anyone I’d ever met, was overly friendly, liked to hug way too much, and didn’t take anything seriously, not even her studies.

Watching her apply cosmetics to my face was the first time I’d seen her so focused. It was as if I were seeing another version of her. One that wasn’t so superficial.

It was a little disappointing that she got this way over makeup, but she’d probably say the same about me and rocks. I was just happy to see her interested in something other than boys. And she talked a lot about boys.

Huh?

I looked at Rachel as she used what looked like a pencil to trace my lips. Maybe her overactive hormones could come in handy. She obviously knew a lot about guys.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, but first smack your lips together.”

I did as she instructed and asked, “If a guy said that you were theirs, what would that mean?”

She stopped digging through her purse and shifted her stare my way. “Are you talking about Issac?”

How bad was it that I felt better knowing she heard it, too? “Yes.”