1642734778_punk-57-pdf

all of them? And Sylvie’s the sweetest kid. How long did he sweet-talk her
to get what he wanted?
“I’m sorry, babe.”
I scoff, tossing the pics on the dresser. “You think I don’t know what
he’s about?”
“Well, you are still going to prom with him.”
I shoot a look over to him, aggravated he keeps bringing that up.
No. I’m not going to prom with Trey. Not anymore. If he treats girls
he’s able to get naked like that, how will he treat someone he can’t get into
bed?
But I won’t tell Masen that. He’ll just gloat.
I look down and see another picture in his hand and inch forward.
“What is that?”
He hoods his eyes, shaking his head like I need to leave it alone. I dart
out and snatch the picture, holding it up in front of me.
Lyla is naked and wet, her hair soaked and sticking to her cheeks and
neck, and she’s posing against what looks like a shower wall, her arms over
her head and her breasts on display. Her eyes taunt the camera—or
whoever’s behind it.
Trey. If he’s not the one with the camera, he still has the picture of her.
But I’m not fooling myself. They fucked. And recently, too. Lyla’s
wearing the bronze wrist cuff she bought when we shopped three Saturdays
ago.
I don’t care about him, and I don’t really like her, so why do I feel my
eyes burning and my throat aching with a scream?
I’m not jealous he got from her what he wasn’t getting from me, and
I’m not jealous they got off on each other. But why did they feel they could
do it behind my back?