You and your boyfriend, Rafe Cameron, never had an argument that would end well. It would either end with him making a jab at your home life and reducing you to tears, or with heated make-up sex that only left you regretting even thinking of leaving him.

That was always the issue with Rafe—he’d never let you leave. No matter what happened, you’d always stay put and, without a doubt, wake up in his bedsheets, naked, the next morning. This time, the argument had erupted in the backyard of Tannyhill, in front of all the party guests, leaving you washed in embarrassment. To cope, you found yourself drinking it away, glass after glass of vodka.

You couldn’t help but glance at Rafe every few seconds, watching him sit with Topper and Kelce, along with some girls—all blonde, all big, snorting the same white powdered drug that the boys were. He noticed your glances, every dirty look, the way your eyes practically formed hearts while watching him, so he beckoned you over with a few flicks of his wrist.

The moment you arrived by his side, his large hand splayed across your hip, following down to your ass.

“Sit the fuck down, now, kiddo,” he demanded, pulling you to sit beside him, the alcohol in your glass swishing around slightly, threatening to spill.

“D’you wanna try some?” he asked, almost rhetorically, gesturing to the lines of cocaine spread across the table with a finger. After you shook your head, he decided it was best to insist.

“C’mon, bunny—look— you just gotta—” He paused, leaning down to the table and snorting the blow with a dollar bill in a quick swipe.

“Easy, see? C’mon, kid,” he said, shoving the dollar bill into your hand as he kneaded the flesh of your ass with his fingertips.

“Rafe, I don’t think she—” Topper started, until Rafe cut him off.

“Shut the fuck up, Top. She can speak for herself.”

Spiteful thing, always. Never allowing anyone who wasn’t himself or your friends to speak with you.