Heavy breathing fills the room, low groans flowing around it and as lips meet my shoulder, the sound of clashing tongues burns in my ear.

My eyes shoot open wide, seeking confirmation of what, I don’t even know at this point, but it’s pitch black in here and they know it.

My blackout boys.

I freeze, my blood running cold and locking my limbs still.

No, no.

Not mine.

They’re hardly even my friends.

They—

“Stop,” is growled into my ear, and then my chin is gripped and yanked to the side.

Heavy, hard lips find mine, and my body decides to melt, to cave, to form to the one behind me.

“Give her more,” Beretta rasps. “Help him.”

Suddenly my hair is tugged, gently yanked and held back, massaged and pulled on in every manner possible, my head rolling, my eyelids fluttering.

I start to shake, everything inside me tightening.

“Kiss me,” I whisper, but I’m bitten at the base of my neck instead.

I shiver.

I come.

Right here in the girls’ bathroom that doesn’t lock and is accessible to all.

I’m given no time to come down. I’m gently spun, leaned against the counter as the door opens and the lights flick on.

It takes two seconds for my eyes to adjust to the brightness, and it’s long enough for them to disappear.

I brace my hands on the cool granite, flattening my palms to soak in the chill it provides.

I huff a laugh, my head falling back to rest against the mirror.

Oh my god, I’m an idiot.

And they’re dangerous.

Still, I laugh, wash my hands as I came in here to do, and when I meet my eyes in the mirror, it doesn’t wash away.

But it does when the stall to my right opens, and Amy steps out.

Shit.

I try not to swallow, to hide the shock or care, but heat is creeping up my neck, and I can’t hide it because how fucking embarrassing!

But the superior pinch of her face, the way she’s pursed her lips and lifted her nose in the air is enough to shake me out of it.

People hook up in the same rooms, cars, and hot tubs all the time.

I’ve heard Dax and Jules come more times than I care to admit, several others too, because at the end of the day, teenagers will get theirs wherever they wish, and their ‘friends’ don’t bat a lash.

The problem?

Amy isn’t my friend, even if she pretends to be in her passive-aggressive ways.

So, as she reaches the counter with her one foot in front of the other catwalk-like strut, I stand tall and dry my hands.

She washes hers as I reapply my lipstick.