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“I promise,” I lie, because the wallet in the penthouse walls will be Felicity’s. If I want to keep my secret safe, it’s theirs. Hexagon Productions can do anything they want with Jane Doe once her truth is out there, who gives a fuck—as long as it’s her truth that’s out there, and not mine. “You can hold me to it.”

When I tuck the card into my bra, because my dress doesn’t have pockets, Daniel stares for too long.

Out in the cold, at three in the morning outside the club, Felicity kisses me on the street.

“We have it,” they whisper clumsily, “we have it.”

Over their shoulder, where Daniel is on the phone with someone because there isn’t a designated driver and he needs to get back to his apartment, and it isn’t that far but he can’t leave his Tesla here, I catch him watching us.

Maybe I’m too drunk, maybe I’m too paranoid, but I feel like I’ve done something I shouldn’t have.

The Official Morgan Slaughter 18th Birthday Countdown Clock

[Photograph: A red-headed teen girl, dressed in a school uniform, looks flatly into the camera. A somewhat similar middle-aged woman has been hastily cropped out of the image, with part of her face still showing. It appears to have been taken from one of Bellamy Slaughter’s social media pages.]

She’ll be OnlyFans legal in:

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Alyssa

did you make it home??

hey seriously, are you okay? Did you make it home alright?

I get back late. It’s almost four in the morning by the time I stumble up to my bedroom and strip off my clothes, overstimulated and dehydrated and drunk as fuck.

Alyssa

I’m SERIOUS

text me back oh my god

My phone doesn’t buzz because I have Alyssa on mute. I don’t care. She left. She left me alone with Daniel and Franco. She doesn’t get to act like she suddenly gives a shit about me now. I collapse into bed and hold up the key card, feeling the warm plastic in my hand, watching blue and red police lights reflect off its face.

I wake up in the afternoon, hungover. Sick as a dog, sweat-through-my-clothes, dizzy-and-starving hungover.

To make matters worse:

First—before I get out of bed, head pounding and sick—I lie on my side, curled against my pillows, and touch my fingers to my lips because Felicity kissed me.

Again.

I don’t like how much I enjoyed it. I don’t know what it means, but I know that it can only get ugly, and people have never once been worth the effort they take.

I am facing down the gaping maw of liking them, and it disgusts me.

And second, Mom is hungover, too.

I know what it looks like on her. When I come downstairs for food, she’s in her bathrobe with her hair in a towel, nursing a glass of water and a plate of plain toast. The only light comes through the windows, slipping between cracks in the half-drawn curtains.

“Have you seen my phone?” she mumbles, squinting at her plate.

“No.” I grab a glass from the drying rack next to the sink and fill it with lukewarm water, because the idea of listening to ice clink into the cup makes me flinch in advance. “How late were you out?”