Page 52 of Trailer Trash

“This sucks,” I whine. “Don’t tell Clark.”

“Chill. I won’t.”

After getting me some water, he lies beside me. I stay still for a while. The room drifts when I move my head, but my stomach eventually stops trying to escape through my throat. I glance over, and meet those devastating eyes. He brushes a lock of hair behind my ear.

“Feel any better?”

“A little. Thanks for taking care of me. Even though this is your fault.”

He laughs. “The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, Harlow.”

I scoff, but then snicker. “Your ex is pretty.”

“Pretty fucking crazy.”

“Is that why you two didn’t work out?”

“Sure.”

“So it was your dealer who cut your face? I heard you tell her that.”

“Mm-hm. God, you both want to talk about heavy shit.” He takes out his pocketknife and flips it open. “The worst part? That asshole used my own knife to cut me.”

“Aww, I’m sorry,” I murmur.

He lies there, staring at the light dancing on the metal blade. “My best friend gave this to me. Well, he was my best friend. We’ve had a rift.”

“What happened?”

“He said something he couldn’t take back. I haven’t forgiven him. Not entirely.”

“I haven’t forgiven Evan for the hell he put me through.”

He points the knife at me. “Hey, no talkin’ about exes.”

I tense with fear, yet laugh from the thrill. He smiles, and it’s contagious, I swear.

“I love your laugh,” he says.

“Stop flirting,” I tease.

“I love the shape of your lips too.”

My cheeks flush. “Um, thanks.”

He reaches out, bringing the blade closer, nearing my face. My chin retracts to my throat.

“What are you doing?”

“Teaching you to trust another man.”

I’m stiff, unsure what he means.

Slowly, he traces the blade’s tip over my shoulder and down my arm, which rests over my waist. It isn’t sharp enough to cut at this pressure, but he could. Only a hint more, and blood will be drawn.

Yet, I don’t stop him, even as he moves to my neckline. The blade slips underneath, sliding down the slope of my breast. He jerks the knife, ripping the neckline open. My chest and bra are exposed.

“My top!” I gasp and yank on the torn ends, trying to magically mend the broken threads.