Brutal Obsession: Chapter 4

I’ve been getting strange looks all day. And, stupid me, I write it off as being back after a semester away. It wasn’t like I was unpopular. People liked me. I had a good amount of friends, including a lot of the athletes. That was the circle I ran in, being on the dance team. But now, there’s a weird hush that precedes me. I’ve been in a quiet bubble, unable to break through it.

Until Amanda finds me.

She skids to a stop in front of me in the hallway outside my third and last class of the day. I created my schedule so the majority of my classes were on Mondays and Wednesdays, and I’m paying the price for it now.

But besides that, Amanda seems stressed. Or nervous?

“What’s wrong?”

She bites her lip and releases it. “Willow’s been yelling in the IT department’s office for an hour.” She unlocks her phone and shoves it at me.

I shake my head slowly, not taking the phone. But my stomach twists, because I have an idea of what might’ve happened. It could be worst-case scenario. Right? Maybe it’s nothing. “I’m not following.”

“Just, please look.” Amanda pushes her phone under my nose.

This time I do take it and glance down. I’m not surprised that the video of Jack and I making out is playing on her screen—but I am surprised that it’s on the front page of the school’s website. And there’s now text slapped on it. Commentary.

She’s off the dance team, but she’ll still horizontal tango if you give her the time of day… Or maybe if you pay enough.

I shut it down. They’re branding me as a slut? Worse—someone who would do those things for money . Fury and embarrassment race through me, heating my skin. I suddenly understand why I’ve been getting looks all damn day. When did Greyson post it? And how ?

I eye the video again. I’ve lowered myself to my knees at this point, my hands gripping Jack’s waist. I don’t seem steady, and my eyes are half closed… and then Jack moves a little, giving the camera his back. I quickly close out of it and hand her phone back.

My stomach turns. Did Jack know they were there?

I’m going to be sick. “And Willow is trying to get it taken down?”

She could’ve texted me and warned me. But… nope. I’ve been going through the day ignorant. It makes sense why I’m getting stares. Everyone thinks I’m that girl now.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I need to find Jack. If he didn’t know, he’s going to be pissed. If he did know someone was filming… why didn’t he stop me?

How the hell am I going to ask that?

“Slut,” someone coughs, knocking into me.

I stumble sideways, and Amanda grabs my arms.

Her eyes are wide. “Who’d you piss off? I’m just asking so I can avoid them.” She forces a laugh, but it dies off quickly. “Seriously, though. Are you okay?”

I pull away and shake my head. Does that really matter? Although it’s clear that I’ve pissed off the one person who already had a vendetta against me. I grimace and check my watch. I’ve never been more relieved to take a step back and point vaguely to my wrist.

“Running late for my class. Um, we’ll talk later.”

I hurry to class and slip inside. I’m on the cusp of being late, which means most of the seats are taken—except for two. One is in the front. And as much as I try to be a good student, I’ve never been a great student. My focus has remained steadfast on ballet. Sitting in the front is practically asking to participate.

The other one is in front of Greyson Devereux.

He’s already spotted me, and his brows lift.

A silent dare?

Fuck, no.

I take a step toward the seat in the front, but I’m too slow. Someone walks around me and sinks into the chair, their head buried in their phone.

Ugh. What are the chances I can drop this class?

But I can’t do it right now.

I steel myself and walk down the row to the empty desk. I sit gingerly, expecting Greyson to say something. A barb, or gloating.

Instead, he’s silent. I feel his stare burning the back of my head.

The professor arrives and smiles at us. “If you’re not here for Environmental Economics, you’re in the wrong class.” Her gaze sweeps over us, and she nods to herself. “Okay, good. Let’s begin…”

I can barely pay attention. I flip my notebook open and jot down what she writes on the board, but it goes in one ear and out the other. I’ve never done especially well in economics. Or any of the math-focused business classes required for my degree.

But it’s more than that. It’s that I can hear Greyson behind me, and I’m hyper-aware of him. Every breath he takes, every shift. The scratch of his pencil against the paper. It grates in my ears, and I grip my pen hard enough that my knuckles turn white. Before long, my hand cramps.

She concludes her lesson, basically the broad scopes of what we’ll be covering, and opens the door. A clear dismissal.

Greyson stands. His notebook and pencil are the only things he brought with him. No backpack, no jacket. Just a tight gray sweater that flatters him way too well. He pauses beside my desk and taps my half-filled page.

“This is going to be fun,” he says.

I watch him head to the front. He introduces himself to the professor. Shakes her hand. And then he’s on his way out, his gait graceful for a stupid moron.

I want to kill him.

But… he didn’t rub it in my face. He didn’t say anything about the video today.

Did he even post it? Did he send it to someone else who posted it?

I heave a sigh and hurry to collect my things.

“Violet,” the professor calls. “Good to have you back.”

I meet her at the whiteboard. “It’s good to be back.”

“How’s your leg? The dean shared with a few of us that had you in our classes regularly that you were out because of an injury.” She shakes her head. “It can be tough to get back in the swing of things.”

“It’s okay. There was some nerve damage, so I deal with that… but otherwise, I’m feeling fine.”

She smiles. “I won’t hold you up. But I’m glad you’ve returned.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

I hurry outside and lean against the wall. I pull my phone out and ignore the million messages, going straight to the school website. There’s just a huge error sign on the main page. Willow must’ve at least been partially successful.

From there, I check my message thread with her. There’s eight from the last hour.

I chuckle. Those are good rules.

Great. A blow job I don’t really remember. Video evidence. And a guy who apparently wants to make me… as infamous as him?

I push off the wall and walk slowly back toward the student center. I don’t particularly feel hungry, but it’s almost an acceptable time to have dinner. If anything else, I’m not going to slink away and let Greyson think he’s won.

My phone buzzes, and I check the screen. I expect it to be Jack. Maybe he missed the excitement. Somehow, I doubt that. Which means he’s not reaching out on purpose. It’s Willow, though, telling me she’s outside the student center.

Right on time.

I find her with Jess and a few other dance team girls. They all eye me with mixtures of sympathy and pity.

“Hey, Violet,” Paris says. She wraps her arms around me. “I’m so sorry for what you’re going through. God, I can’t even imagine.”

Right. Like she doesn’t have a JustFans account. But it’s different when it’s posted against your will… publicly. She has paying customers, and I just have humiliation.

A lump forms in my throat, and I gently extricate myself from her grip. I can’t quite get the image of her and Greyson out of my head. Not that anything is going on there, but obviously he had something to do with it. He filmed it. And whether he shared it or posted it himself, he’s at fault.

“Hey, Violet!” A guy waves at me. “I’ve got a twenty. Wanna suck me off in the bathroom?”

I grimace and turn away. His friends burst into laughter, and they all sweep past us into the student center.

“Ignore them,” Willow says. “It’ll blow over in a few days.”

I nod and follow her inside. We swipe in and get food, then all get a table off to the side. That bubble of quiet from earlier has indeed popped—but now I can hear the snide laughter and questioning gazes. My face gets red and stays that way.

“My parents are flying in from Atlanta next month,” Paris says. “They want to meet Greyson.”

Willow flinches.

“Why would they want to meet him?” Willow snaps at her.

Paris tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Because his father is a senator, and Dad wants to run for office next election. Plus, I have a feeling we’ll be dating by the end of the week.”

Willow’s eyes bug out of her head. I’m not sure about my own reaction, but my face gets hotter. My whole body gets warm, too. There’s a raging inferno under my skin, and I scratch at my wrist. I hope my expression remains somewhat neutral.

Everyone knows Greyson’s dad is a senator in New York. He’s been here a semester, after all. Not much stays secret on a campus this size. But still, putting that fact next to what I told Willow this morning? She’s now seeing the scope of the situation.

“Oh?” My best friend’s voice is strangled.

Paris rolls her eyes, misreading the situation. “Did you think he was a different Devereux? Everyone’s been talking about it.”

Ugh. Willow still has a sour look on her face when she stands abruptly. Her gaze falls to me, and I know what she’s thinking.

That I’m in deeper shit than she figured.

“Why are you looking at Violet?” Paris asks.

Willow can’t even answer. She shakes her head and grabs her plate, stalking away. Should I have mentioned that? Maybe. Probably. I mean, it’s just a little, messy detail.

“I’ve got to go,” I mutter. I take my plate of food to the trash and scrape off what I didn’t eat. I’m nauseated.

How many people saw me blow Jack?

I touch my lips on my way out. A dirty feeling washes over me. I’ve never let myself feel this way before. Shameful almost. I guess I never had a reason to feel it.

On my way out, I catch sight of Jack.

“Hey!” I call.

He glances at me, then away.

The tips of his ears are red.

“Jack?”

He turns to me, and his lips press together. His brows draw down. I’ve never seen him angrier, and I almost take a step back. Something holds me firm, though. Whether that be my own stubbornness or fury at this situation, which we should be in together, I couldn’t say.

“What do you want, Violet?” There’s real venom in his voice.

“I—”

“You’re an embarrassment.” He steps closer, and he ducks his head so we’re practically eye to eye. “I don’t know what the fuck sort of game this is, but—”

“Game?” I choke. “Are you kidding me? You think I wanted everyone to see me—”

“That video painted you as a slut.” He lifts his shoulder and lets it fall. The anger is melting into indifference. “And how should I know? You were someone else over the summer. The girl I used to know. And now…” He shakes his head. “You’re doing to me what you did to Greyson.”

I rear back. He’s got to be fucking kidding me. “You’re blaming me for… ruining your football career? I drank too much and someone took advantage of us in a vulnerable spot. That’s not my fault.”

It’s violating. That’s it.

I let myself feel it for a moment. Simmer in the raw vulnerability of it.

And then I shut it off.

“Well, you know what, Jack? Fuck you, and fuck all your buddies who have been whispering about me behind my back.” I shake my head. “I’m done.”

Ridiculous to think he might’ve been upset with me. With me, not at me.

I’m tired.

The video is down.

Jack is an asshole.

Greyson is a monster.

It’s fine. Everything is fine.

But… it is until it isn’t.

Until I get home, and the front door is ajar.

I push the door open carefully, and it swings inward on silent hinges. I bite my tongue to keep from calling out to Willow. I just left her in the dining hall—there’s no way she’d have beaten me back. I creep inside, my phone clenched in my fist. I dial a nine and a one, ready to hit the last one and call for help. The living room and kitchen are untouched. Same with Willow’s room. Her door is open, the bed neatly made.

It’s my room that’s been affected.

Demolished.

The mattress has been stripped and yanked from the frame. Slices cut into it, rendering it useless. Pieces of foam and fluff litter the floor. The frame is cracked. All my clothes have been ripped out of my closet, the dresser, and spread around. Even the dresser is broken.

I step farther inside and rotate slowly.

The picture wall has been slapped with paint. Just one word. And not one that should even hurt that much, given the discussion my class just had. But it does hurt. It pricks my eyes like little needles. The red paint has dripped down, dotting the pieces of foam and carpet against the wall. None of the photos seem salvageable.

I force myself to read it again. To actually look at the word, the way the letters were formed. I let out a sigh and shake my head. I’m not what they think I am. I’m not anything, at the moment. I’m free-floating.

But to them? I’m a…

Whore .