Page 25 of Gilt

“Monroe.” Jonas says her name sharply, but I step forward and wiggle between them.

“Let her finish. She’s been wanting to say this for a long time.” I’m tired of being used by the Wests. First, my father was a pawn in Nathaniel’s schemes, and then I endured years of shit from Monroe. I hate them all, especially Jameson, for using me to get himself out of trouble. All they do is take, and I’m about to give a little back.

“You never should have been there last night, but I guess I can’t be surprised that you threw yourself at him. It’s your typical pathetic move.” She’s practically spitting at me now.

“My typical pathetic move?” I repeat. “Like when you got Jonas drunk at the Freshman Desert Party and had sex with him on a car in front of half of the student body. Classy like that, Monroe? Because one of us is actually pathetic. There’s a mirror in there if you want to see what she looks like.”

Jonas looks positively constipated as I haul up this unpleasant memory, but hey, it takes two to tango.

“Feel free to jump in any time, or did she take your backbone along with your virginity?” I tell him.

“You know Hugo will be back tomorrow to give his statement if you need a pity fuck,” Monroe steps in before I can unleash three years of anger on her boyfriend. “Sorry I can’t be more help, but I have to plan my father’s funeral.”

She drags Jonas toward the elevator, dumping the coffee cup on the floor. I suppose Monroe and her brother are a lot alike. They both expect other people to clean up their messes.

Brother. Monroe’s brother.

The fight had been a welcome distraction from that piece of shrapnel that is now lodged in my chest about dead center. Jameson didn’t know who I was last night, because he would never have touched a Southerly. Now conveniently, I’m his alibi, which no one can ever know. It might kill my dad to know I was out all night with a guy, but if he found out that it was a West, he might kill him. And me. Belle Mère really doesn’t need any more murders at the moment.

“Come on, Josie. Where are you?” Saying her name a loud works like an incantation because a second later, the phone buzzes with a message that she’s outside. I can’t blame her for not wanting to come in to the police station. If Detective Mackey is telling the truth and everyone at that party is a suspect, she’ll get her fifteen minutes soon enough.

Texting her that I’m on my way out, I hit the elevator button. But as I step inside, the door next to my interview room opens—the one on the other side of the mirror. Jameson steps out, followed by a man in a suit. Jameson is dressed in las tonight’s clothes and a five o’clock shadow darkens his jaw. The hair my hands tangled through hours ago is a mess of coppery, brown tangles.

Because he slept with it wet. After our time in the pool. After we spent half the night with our bodies entwined. Did he sleep next to me? I push the thought as far back into my gray matter as I can, because if what Monroe told me is true, then he’s dangerous. He pauses to talk to the man who must be his lawyer. Meanwhile, the elevator doors are taking the length of the Bible to close. Jameson turns as if he can sense me watching him, and our eyes meet. A charge of electricity runs over my skin as he stares at me. The recognition and the hunger in his gaze calls my body to him while I scramble to press buttons on the control panel. His mouth opens as I stumble inside my salvation, and the doors slide shut between us.

CHAPTER TEN

“You look pretty.” Josie eyes the yellow dress I’d worn to appease my mom this morning. “Personally, I don’t dress up to go to the police station, but to each her own.”

I shoot her a look that says I’m not currently to be fucked with. Seeing Jameson ratcheted the warning level on my personal stupidity watch. I’d disregarded my instincts yesterday—a mistake I’d be paying for indefinitely.

When I don’t offer any information, she presses forward. “Dare I ask?”

“Give me a minute.” I close my eyes, squeezing them until spots of light appear. Then I hold out my arm. “Pinch me.”

“What?” she asks.

“Pinch me,” I request again. “I need to be woken up.” A second later, a sharp throb bursts across my skin, and I snatch my arm away from her. “I didn’t really mean it.”

“You asked me to do it twice!” Josie huffs as she puts the car into reverse and backs out of the parking lot.

For all intents and purposes, she did jolt me out of my hazy state, which is why I notice that her hair is frizzy like she had just woken up. Today she’s the one with the dark circles under her eyes and no make-up. She looks like how I feel. “Hey, you okay?”

“I was really worried about you last night.” Her eyes stay glued to the road as if she’s waiting for a chance to pull out of the station’s parking lot, but the road is free of traffic. She continues, gazing blankly ahead, “I didn’t get much sleep, and then I’ve been watching the news all morning.”

No. No. No.

“Don’t work yourself up,” I beg her. Last summer, after the accident, Josie consumed every piece of media that focused on Becca’s death. She watched the crash scene news video every night. She collected clippings from the paper. I even found a copy of the obituary stuffed inside one of her textbooks. When I confronted her about it, she admitted that none of it felt real. I understood that, and helping her through it had been easier than focusing on my own grief. I didn’t want to see a repeat of that level of obsession from her again. “This has nothing to do with us, so you need to let it go.”

She flinches at my gentle redirection, and her voice takes on a wild, uneven tone that mimics the screech of her tires as she pulls out hastily. “They aren’t even saying anything on the news. And don’t tell me it has nothing to do with us when I just picked you up at the police station.”

“Turn here,” I demand, pointing to the street ahead.

She swerves into the right lane and does as I ask, navigating to our favorite ice cream shop, Coffee & Cream. We pull into a spot and scramble out ahead of a large family in a minivan. For five blessed minutes, I focus on nothing but deciding what ice cream flavor to choose: a scoop of coffee and a scoop of tiramisu. But as soon as we both have cones in our hands, I’m back to reality. The outdoor patio is empty, thanks to the afternoon heat. We might melt, but we’ll have our privacy.

“Spill,” she says after a few licks of her mint chocolate chip. “Where were you last night and what were you doing at the police station today?”

I pause from my ice cream coma and give her a guilty look. “I stayed at Monroe’s last night.”