I collect my purse and a jacket off the table and his eyes wander over to me. Usually, he immediately disregards me, but tonight my outfit sets him off, which I expected.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” He sits up, giving me a dirty look as he takes in my tight white tank top that shows off my stomach, my breasts, and the leopard-print bra I wear underneath. I have a pair of really short cutoffs on that reveal the bottom of my ass when I bend over, which one of the waitresses told me I’ll be doing a lot since the guys usually throw the tips onto the floor.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I retort, swinging the handle of my bag over my shoulder. “There’s a thing called a shirt, you know.”

He narrows his eyes. “What the hell did I do to you?”

“Besides ignore me for the last few weeks?” I say, jerking the front door open. “Nothing.”

“I’m not ignoring you,” he calls out. “I’m just opting not to spend time with you. Something roommates do a lot.”

I stick my head back in the door. “You’re being an asshole and I don’t know why. I didn’t even do anything to you besides ask a God damn question.”

His eyes soften and I think he’s going to apologize as he stands up and struts over to the door. But then he says, “You look like a whore.”

That strikes a nerve, severing my connection with him. I raise my hand to slap him or shove him—I’m not even sure which. But then I decide against it and, shaking with rage, I walk down the stairs. “I don’t even know what I did!” I holler, unconcerned that I’m making a scene. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to make a scene and I’m so sick and tired of it. Nothing feels right anymore.

“You didn’t do anything… This is all my fault… I’m sorry,” Ethan calls out after me, but I’m already running across the parking lot so his words hit my back.

I have no traveling option other than to take the bus or walk. It’s a long walk, so I take the smelly, gross bus. I sit in the back, stewing in my anger, zipping my jacket up over my slutty clothes. I’ve never cared that I was a slut before. I’ve been called it since I was fourteen. But that God damn word—whore—sends me back to a time I’ve tried to forget.

“Just lie down on the bed,” Sean says in a sultry voice that makes me feel warm and loved inside. “I promise, Lila, it’ll feel good.”

He’d just put the platinum ring on my finger, saying that he was waiting to give it to someone special. My head feels a little hazy, due to the few shots I had before I came to his place. I hate drinking, but my friends told me it was necessary for tonight, especially if I was going to lose my virginity. All the cloudiness evaporates as I blink up at him and I can see the love in his green eyes, even if he hasn’t said it aloud yet. I know he loves me, because no one has ever looked at me like that—like they want me.

“Take off your clothes,” he whispers, leaning in to give me a soft kiss on the mouth.

I nod as he leans away and I start to unbutton the crisp white shirt I have to wear every day at school. I keep my eyes on his as I fumble with the buttons, both loving and fearing the hungry look in his eyes.

“You have such gorgeous eyelashes,” I say as I slip my arms out of my sleeves and let my shirt fall to the floor. I’m standing in my plain white bra, plaid uniform skirt, and knee-high socks, the standard New York Reform School attire. I’ve never been topless in front of a guy before, but Sean isn’t just some guy. I gradually walk toward him, trying to look sexy and confident, but my nerves are bursting inside. I slide my fingers up the front of his shirt, feeling his rock-hard chest beneath it, pretending that I’m not terrified at all of what’s about to happen—pretending I’m more experienced than I really am.

His muscles constrict as I reach his neck and for a flicker of a second the caring softness I’ve always seen in his eyes ices over. But the oddly cold look quickly vanishes as he reaches up and places his large hand over mine. “Guys don’t want to be told they have gorgeous eyelashes, Lila,” he says in a blank tone. “Think of something better.”

I swallow hard, worried I’m turning him off. I wrack my brain for something to say to him—anything that will get him to stop looking at me as if I’m just an inexperienced, naïve girl. But I can’t seem to think of anything witty and sexy through the massive sea of alcohol in my head.

Sensing my panic, he gathers my hands in front of me. “Relax, Lila. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I never said you were.” I sound choked and I know he can feel my pulse pounding through my wrists that he has pinned beneath his hands.

He smiles, glancing around his dimly lit bedroom. He has candles burning on the nightstands and in the windowsill, creating the perfect glow and lavender scent to make love in. The bed is decorated with rose petals, there are chiffon curtains enclosing the elegant four-poster bed, and soft music flows in the background. Everything is perfect. Perfection. I can feel it, which means this is right. The thing I’m supposed to achieve. I have the perfect guy, older and more mature, with stubble and a firm jawline, and he’s wearing a fancy suit. These are the things my mother always told me to look for in a guy. Yes, he’s been a little rough with me, and when we’re around other people, he ignores me, but only because he has to because he’s older.

He strokes his finger delicately down my cheek and all my reservations melt like the wax dripping from the candles around the room. “You trust me, right?”

I nod, gazing up at him. “Of course.”

An artful smile curls at his lips. “Good.” He leans in, putting his lip to my ear, and breathes on my skin. I try not to shudder because I know it will make me seem immature, but I can’t help it and my shoulder drifts upward. “Lie down on the bed for me,” he says softly and then grazes his teeth across my ear.

“O-okay,” I say breathless.

He leans back and his eyes almost look black in the inadequate lighting as I back toward the bed and he slowly drinks me in. My knees are shaking as I sink down onto the mattress, remaining on the edge.

“Do you—do you want me to leave my skirt on?” I sound so nervous, but he’s so experienced and I’m not and I’m doing a terrible job of hiding it.

He walks back and forth in front of the foot of the bed, tracing his finger along the footboard. “Leave it on for now.” As he reaches one of the bedposts, he stops and begins unwinding a frayed rope I hadn’t noticed was there until now.

My eyes are fixated on it, my body filled with uncertainty as he unravels the rope from the bedpost and winds it around his hand. “You look nervous,” he observes, rounding the bed back and coming to me. “I thought you trusted me.”

“I-I do,” I stammer, unable to take my eyes off the rope. “You just seem different tonight.”

He puts a finger under my chin and forces me to look up at him. “Lila Summers, listen to me. I’d never do anything to hurt you, understand?” He pauses, waiting for me to nod, and I do, almost certain that I mean it. He smiles. “Good, now lay down for me please.”

I obey, telling myself I love him, even when seconds later he calls me his little whore as he ignores my pleas for him to stop and he ties me to the bed…

I jump up from my seat, even though the bus is stopped nowhere near my destination. The doors open and I rush out into the heat and dusty air, trying to shake my head of thoughts of lavender and the aching memory of how the rope felt. I make a right instead of a left, heading toward a house I know I shouldn’t be going to, but it’s hard—too hard. Remembering the things I’ve done—the dark things I did—is making a vile feeling pollute my stomach.

The house is located a few blocks down from where I got off the bus. The neighborhood is nice, homey, each two-story stucco house surrounded by lush green lawns dotted with plants and small trees. Each two-car driveway has a midsize sedan, sleek, but not too sleek. There’s an illusion of middle-class perfection in this neighborhood, but behind some of these closed doors lives a darker way of life. I know because I’m headed to one of them.