Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 103104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
All thoughts stop, and my feet stumble when I see who’s next to Knox: Chance. I get a good look at how he pales, his blue eyes flaring at me as he shoves his hand into his sandy-blond hair.
That’s right, dickhead, here I am: Ava, version 2.0.
Gone is the girl he kissed like he meant it.
Familiar shame rises up inside me, and I battle it down. What happened was not my fault. Even though the drug test said I didn’t have any drugs in my system (only alcohol), I refuse to believe it. Or maybe it was just the alcohol. I don’t know, and it drives me insane.
I also had a rape kit performed—I cringe at that humiliating memory, the cold, impersonal room, the invasive questions. Are you sexually active? Yes, I’d had sex before. How long has it been since your last consensual intercourse? Six months. Who was he? A guy from Sisters of Charity who now lives in Texas. How many partners have you had? Just one, just one—until this. What kinds of medications do you take? None. Then they moved me to another room for an exam, where they inspected me from head to toe, swabbing every inch, from my mouth to my toenails. They took photos of the bruises on my inner thighs. They took my clothing and put it in a paper bag. They asked me details about what led up to the assault, wanting me to tell them step by step what happened, and even though the nurse was kind, so incredibly kind, I had to hide my face when I told her I couldn’t remember who it was.
And in the end…
Nothing.
They determined I’d had sex, rough sex, but no semen or reliable DNA was found.
And Chance? His last text after I went to the police: Stop lying about the party. You aren’t the person I thought you were. You’re just a slut.
That nasty word slices into my heart, cutting deep. I’m not promiscuous. I didn’t screw around at Camden; I was too busy working, studying, and taking care of my brother. Besides, it shouldn’t freaking matter if I had screwed every guy here.
Drunkenness does not equal acquiescence.
I must be insane because I linger in front of the three of them and study the lines of Chance’s face, his square chin, the dimples on either side of his mouth, the ones that deepen when he smiles.
There’s a frown there now.
Yes, I mentally whisper, my mouth tightening. I hope seeing me pisses you off. I’m not here for you, jock. I’m here for me.
With that fake smile back in place, I move on. I’m almost to my locker, number 102, when two girls appear in front of me, blocking my path.
Geeze. At least I’m getting it ALL over with at once.
A long exhalation leaves my chest as I take in Jolena and Brooklyn, my former cheer pals. My lips twist. They were never really my friends. Not once have they called or texted me in the past ten months.
Jolena, the clear queen bee, is in red heels, her dark auburn hair twirled up in a high ponytail that accentuates her striking cheekbones and ruby lips.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Ava Harris. I can’t believe you have the nerve to show your face here. Please tell me you aren’t going to try out for cheer.” The words are said with a perfect fake smile.
I’m not surprised she approached me right off the bat. It’s what I expected—anger and resentment. By going to the police, I ratted on the popular kids. To me the party was a meaningless side note compared to what happened at the end of it, but to some, I committed an act of treason. I’m the rat and snitches get stitches and all that jazz.
Plus, there’s the video of me with football players, her boyfriend included.
Just another sick carnival ride.
The young detective taps a pen on the table. “Miss Harris, is it possible you consented to sex? Your behavior at the party was, well, indicative of…” His dry voice trails off, but I get his meaning. “I know most of these boys. Good parents. Great football players. It’s okay if you had consensual sex with—”
“No!” I call out. “No, no, no…” My shoulders hunch and I want to crawl away.
“There’s video of you dancing with Liam Barnes, Dane Grayson, Brandon Wilkes…” He lists several more, each name a slice of pain. “Let me show you.”
He sticks a laptop in my face and hits play. I don’t know who took it or who gave it to them. It’s dark and grainy, but there’s no mistaking my tank top and blonde hair. Or the guys. I’m in a circle dancing and laughing up at them, my hands on their shoulders, moving one to another. My eyes are shut. “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails blares.