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“Yes, I did,” I pout.
He chuckles, lying beside me, his attention all on me, and I smile.
“Do you love me?” I ask.
He rolls onto his back again, avoiding my steady gaze. “I love you, Livi.”
I move closer toward him, the heat of his skin warming mine. “Do you want to make out again?”
He laughs.
“If you don’t want to make out…” I place my hand on his shorts, right in the center.
“Livi…” His voice sounds like a warning.
“You used to show me before.”
He sighs. “It was different then. We were just curious, and we weren’t in love.”
I laugh at his silly argument. “That makes no sense.”
“It will make sense when you’re older,” he says.
I hate when he says that, and lately, he’s been saying it a lot. “I’m only a year younger than you.”
“A year and a half,” he corrects me. “Next summer, you’ll be old enough to date. I’ll talk to your dad then.”
I laugh. “Are you chicken?” I poke him with my big toe. “We’re all alone. Who will see us if you show me now?”
Chapter Eleven
Olivia
Before class starts, I feel Elijah staring, but it isn’t the same as before. My skin doesn’t crawl, and my hairs don’t lift on the back of my neck. Instead, I squirm in my seat and try to focus while controlling my desire. I picture his body pressed solidly against mine and want him inside me again and again.
I sit alone in class and focus my attention on my photo assignment. But I also feel a crushing shame and confusion over what my father may have done. I can barely look Elijah in the eye now that I know the truth. My father must’ve accused Elijah of a horrible crime that led to his incarceration in a juvenile facility. But how could my father accuse Elijah without any proof?
Harris stands in the back of the class, admiring the black and white photos pinned to the whiteboard in the front of the room. The competition is fierce; it’s not point and click. She strolls to the front, focusing on her favorites. I’m proud of my photos of architectural details cropped into abstract compositions. She admires the trio of photos I pinned up but continues past them without commenting and stops in front of a portrait of a woman in a bar.
I squint hard at the photo, though I’m only a few tables away. Something about the woman is familiar, though the details of her face are concealed by a shadow. She’s positioned with her muscular back to the viewer, and the neon of the bar glows in the background. I definitely recognize the bar.
“Whose is this?” Harris looks at the class.
Elijah clears his throat. “It’s mine.”
My blood boils as I stare at the photos of Nikki obviously topless, sitting in the bar where Elijah works. When did he take these? And what else did they do while he was taking these pictures?
Harris nods approvingly. “The composition is amazing, as well as the use of shadow. She’s framed by the curve of the neon that suggests the curve of her body that’s not visible. It’s sensual without giving too much away.” She smiles at Elijah. “I think I recognize the bar. Is it downtown?”
Elijah gives Harris a rare smile. “Yeah, I work there in the evenings. When you stop by, say, ‘Hi’.”
There are scattered giggles in the room as a smiling Harris moves on to the next student’s work. Did he just try to pick our teacher up in front of the entire class? I watch him like a hawk watching her, and it takes all my strength not to walk over to Elijah and shout in his face. We had sex in that bar near that very spot. Is that his hook-up line? And was I fooled into thinking I was special?
When the critique is over, I practically rip my photos off the board and return to my seat. Anyone watching would assume I did it because I was pissed over the lack of feedback. I simmer at my table while Harris sits down with Elijah and flips through his tablet. Her laughter keeps drawing my attention back to them. She practically ignores the rest of the class, and he sits there, having the nerve to smile at her. He doesn’t look grim today as he flirts with the teacher. The tortured artist has a huge ass-kissing grin on his face.
Next week, we’ll probably see a photo of Harris naked on the desk where he fucked me.
I grab my stuff and shove it into my messenger bag. The chair scrapes against the floor as I get up from the table. I walk briskly out of the room and head outdoors. I’m too fucking furious to cry, but why should I cry over him anyway? My father screwed up his life, and now, Elijah’s gotten even by fucking me. Now that Elijah has had me, he can move on. Is that it? I feel so stupid, but I wanted him. He was my first love, and it stings like hell to see him move on.
