Page 59 of Filthy Beautiful
Leave her alone…
He knew it as well as I did. I was trouble for her.
Or I would be, if I got in her space.
Maybe she knew it, too. Maybe that’s why she was trying so hard to get rid of me.
I wasn’t sure what all that shit was about—putting her tits in my face like that. But if I had to put money on it… Yeah, she was fucking with me.
Or trying to.
Trying to get me to grope her or something, so she could go crying to her brother and get me kicked out?
The more I thought about it, that was the only explanation that made any sense to me.
No way was I letting that happen, though. No way was I gonna fuck with Cary like that.
Not happening.
“I’ll try to stay out of her way,” I told him. “I’m not home much anyway.”
Cary just nodded.
“You want another beer?” I asked him. “Food? We could do lunch.”
“I need to get back to work.”
“Sure,” I said, watching him get up. Ordinarily, I might’ve tried harder to get him to stay, give me a few more minutes of his time. But maybe it was better that this conversation was over. “I’ll catch you later.”
He took a sip of his untouched beer, then set the bottle down on the table right next to Courteney’s lipgloss.
“Later,” he said.
I watched him walk away, up the path to the house.
Then I picked up my gym bag, went out to my car, and cleared the hell out of there before Courteney came back.
Chapter Seven
Courteney
“I’m so embarrassed.”
“I know.” Angeline leaned on the wall just inside the bedroom door, looking at me where I lay sprawled on the bed, feeling sorry for myself. She’d come in to check if I was awake—I was—and tell me breakfast was ready.
What beautiful words.
Breakfast is ready.
Those were the words of a person who loved you, if I’d ever heard any. And I could definitely feel all the love in Angie’s house. I’d been basking in it for three bittersweet days.
I looked over at her. Angeline Delacroix was a founding member of the Lil Brat Society, and even though she was six years older than me, we’d become best friends almost as soon as we met. I’d always been kind of mature for my age—in some ways—and Angie was, well, kinda immature in some ways. So it balanced out.
We’d only known each other for two years, but I was closer to her than I’d ever been to anyone. It was only natural, when I’d humiliated myself and needed a place to lick my wounds, I ran to her house for sanctuary.
She smiled at me. She was wearing mint-green silk pajamas and fluffy kitten slippers, holding a mug of coffee in her hand. Some cappuccino thing her mom made that smelled amazing.
It was almost enough to get me out of bed.
