Although a hot shower with him, kissing and touching him, sounds really good.
“Just hurry up,” I whisper, wiggling my legs underneath me, getting anxious.
He searches the rest of the room—some small boxes in the closet and the bedside drawers—while I hold the light, waiting for him to give up, so we can just get out of here. But he pauses briefly, standing at the foot of the bed, thinking.
And then, before I have a chance to push him again to get us out of here, he whips around and heads out of the room and across the hall.
Trey’s room. Finally. I expected him to search there first. I don’t know why Trey would have anything of his, but he’d be a hell of a lot more likely to steal something from Masen than the parents.
Glancing around the principal’s bedroom, I make sure everything is put back in place—closets and drawers closed—and shut the bedroom door, hustling across the hall and following him into Trey’s room.
I brave a glance around. I should feel guilty that I’m sneaking around the room of the guy I’m going to prom with, but I let my gaze fall on his queen-sized bed, a navy blue comforter with gray sheets, and I feel a shiver crawl up my arms instead.
There’s no way I ever want to lie in there with him.
I watch Masen open the bedside drawer and pick up a box of condoms, flashing it to me over his shoulder.
“What do you think?” he teases. “Is he stocking up for prom?”
Oh, whatever. “You know, you keep bringing up prom,” I point out, stepping up behind him and whispering in his ear. “If you’re that worried about what might happen with those condoms, maybe you should do something about it.”
I feel his body shake with a quiet laugh as he tosses the box back into the drawer.
“Ask me,” I whisper, running my lip over his lobe. “Ask me, and I’ll say yes.”
He leans into my mouth, looking at me. “Maybe tomorrow.”
I push away, displeased. “Douchebag.”
He chuckles behind me. I flash the light around the room as Masen makes his way over to the dresser and opens the left drawer, mussing the socks as he digs.
But I notice something in the dark and pinch my eyebrows together, coming over and reaching in, touching his hand.
“This drawer should be deeper,” I tell him, my fingers hitting a plank of wood. I’d noticed his hand and wrist in the drawer when the depth should’ve eaten up half his forearm.
We both feel around, and Masen narrows his eyes, finding something and pulling on it.
He lifts up the piece of wood, the clothes fall back, and I see another compartment underneath.
Masen reaches in and pulls out what looks like a stack of cards. He turns them over and looks at them, but then he drops his hand back into the drawer, stuffing the cards back into the compartment.
“What?” I prod, reaching in and trying to grab the stack away from him.
“It’s nothing.” He tries to replace the board. “It’s not what I’m looking for.”
But I force my way in and rip the stack out of his hand.
Shooting him a joking little scowl, I turn the cards over and look at them.
My chest caves. Oh, my God.
They’re not cards. They’re pictures. Four by sixes by the looks of it, and I stare at each image, shuffling the cards one after another, my stomach churning.
Lindsey Beck, a senior who graduated last year.
Fara Corelli, a senior in my class this year.
Abigail Dunst, another senior.
Sylvie Lanquist, a junior.
Georgia York. J.D.’s older sister. He probably doesn’t have any idea about that.
Girl after girl, naked and in a variety of different poses. Some of them are selfies, some of them taken by someone else, and in one of them, Trey has a girl straddling him. His face holds a sleazy smile.
Disgusted, I curl my fingers around the pictures.
Brandy Matthews is naked and on her hands and knees, the camera catching the side of her face as Trey, I would assume, kneels behind her and takes the picture.
My heart races, and I feel like it’s going to jump out of my chest. I shuffle the next card and see Sylvie, her mouth open and…
I drop my hands, looking away. Gross.
My God. What’s wrong with him? Who takes pictures of that many women—girls—committing sexual acts? Did they know he was doing it to 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.