Read My Lips(79)

All the fury seems to drain from Brant’s eyes. This close, I see that anger slowly replaced with hurt.

I swallow hard. I don’t know whether to regret the words, apologize, or punch a hole through the wall by his head.

Then his eyes shift. I turn around. Dessie’s standing in the hallway.

How much of this did she hear?

She signs: Is this the “you” that you’ve been hiding? You have an anger problem? Her signs are all wrong, but I get the gist, and the gist sucks.

My fists are so balled up, I could draw blood from my own palms.

“I don’t have an anger problem,” I growl through the stinging silence, then sarcastically add, “I have a deaf problem.”

He texted me, she returns with her hands, and then she spells out his name: K-E-L-L-E-N.

My fist breaking his glasses in half replays ten times in my head. I feel my teeth clattering together.

“He told me to beware of you,” she says and signs. Instead of “beware”, she signs “scared”, which I guess is just as accurate. I watch her lips, each word causing its due damage. “He didn’t tell me why, but I know he left early. Eric told me at rehearsal. What happened? Did he leave because of you?”

All I can do is stare at her. What would be the easiest thing to say? I punched him because of what he said about her, making me sound like some possessive jerk? Or, had I not stopped, I would’ve thrown fists into him until there was nothing left of his pompous fucking face?

Why does it feel like I lose no matter what I say?

“He just … He just had to go.” My words ride on the last wisp of breath in my lungs.

Her bag’s hanging at her side. I just now notice it. She pulls it over a shoulder, telling me she has to go.

“Dessie,” I plead.

Then I follow, calling after her. Only once she’s outside the door does she finally glance back. It isn’t her leaving that hurts me the most.

It’s the look of fear in those eyes.





The rain hasn’t stopped all week. They’re saying if it keeps it up this badly, our turnout for the weekend may suffer.

To that, I say, let it suffer.

I couldn’t dream of a better outcome than to perform in front of an audience of three.

Or two.

Or none.

I listen to the spattering of rain against my dorm window, not wanting to go to sleep just yet, because that means it’ll be Friday, and with Friday comes the dreaded opening night.

I breathe deeply, willing myself to calm down.

I’ve spent days trying to reconcile how I feel about Clayton, about Chloe and Victoria and their judging eyes, about Kellen and his cryptic warning—or Clayton and his cryptic explanation of said warning. The enraged look in his eyes when he’d finished yelling at Brant keeps resurfacing, scaring me anew.

I know what it’s like to get close to someone, only to have them turn into someone else entirely. I know how far a man’s willing to go to convince a woman he’s the best thing under the sun, while actually being as unreliable as the moon, its phase changing each night.

And I’m so scared to experience that again.

No matter how good his arms feel around me.

Or his tongue.

Or his …

I run a hand down my body, squeezing shut my eyes and trying to envision his sexy face from the first time he stared at me with that hunger in his eyes. My hand is cool as ice as it makes its way between my legs. I gasp as a finger teases me below. Clayton Watts.

He’s bad news, Des.

I huff, annoyed at the invading voices. I try to recapture his face, my finger searching for pleasure. I moan, finding it again. I breathe deeply.

All the new students want him. Stay away.

He’s bad, bad news.

No one goes near the Watts boy.

I huff again, pushing away all the stupid warnings from my stupid friends.

Their thorns will prick you just the same. It’s in their nature.

I touch myself. I feel my heart picking up pace. I lick my lips and run my fingers up and down my other lips. My legs squeeze together instinctively, then open up, desperate for him.

He didn’t hear your song. Not one note.

He’s deaf.

My eyes flick open. Suddenly, it’s not his sexy face that I see; it’s his half-turned, oblivious face at the Theatre mixer. The first time I ever saw him. I hear myself trying to get his attention again.

Then, I see him walk away like I wasn’t even worth his breath.

I see him after he caught me singing to myself in the auditorium. The menacing twist of his lips into a frown … the tattoo drawn up his neck … his heavy-lidded eyes as he stares me down.

I don’t have an anger problem.

I have a deaf problem.

For some reason, it strikes me harder now than ever. My fantasy is shattered, and as fast as it’d come, suddenly I’m just a girl on a bed with a hand between my legs.