Virgin 4 Life

Chapter 14

"Stop here," I say when we're still a block from my house, the dashboard clock glowing 8:57 like a warning. My father cannot see this car. Cannot see me getting out of it. Cannot see who I've become.

"Seriously?" Caleb's amused, but he pulls over anyway, the engine purring in the darkness. "You're that scared of daddy?"

"You have no idea what he's like." I check my reflection in the visor mirror—lipstick smeared, eyes still dark with makeup that screams 'bad decisions.' I wipe at my mouth frantically. "Thanks for tonight. The movie was... nice."

"Nice?" His laugh fills the car. "You spent half of it in my lap moaning."

My face burns nuclear. "I should go."

I scramble out before he can say anything else that makes me combust, speed-walking through the darkness toward my house. My heels click too loud on the sidewalk, announcing my sins to the whole neighborhood.

At the front door, I peer through the glass panel. Kitchen looks empty, his laptop closed on the table. Coast clear. I slip inside like a thief, practically running on my tiptoes toward the stairs, holding my breath.

Halfway up, reality hits—I'm still wearing the burgundy dress. If he sees me like this, I'm dead. Actually dead.

I sprint the rest of the way, yanking the dress over my head before my door's even fully closed. It gets shoved deep in my closet like evidence of a crime. Pajama pants and an old youth group t-shirt replace it in record time—good daughter costume back in place.

I'm barely finished when I open my door for water and walk directly into a wall of disapproval.

"Christ, Evelyn!" Dad steps back, hand on his chest like I've given him a heart attack. "How did you get past without me even hearing you?"

My heart hammers so hard I'm sure he can see it through my shirt. "I don't know, maybe you're working too hard? You're getting older. It's Friday, you should relax."

"Maybe." His eyes scan me like an X-ray machine—pajamas, flushed face, and fuck, the makeup. I forgot to remove the smoky eye makeup that definitely wasn't there when I left.

His frown deepens, cutting lines into his face. "How did the preparation go?"

For a second, I blank. Preparation? Then I remember—Mia, studying, the lie. "Good. Really good. We covered everything. I was having trouble with integrals, but Mia helped."

"Integrals." He says it like he's tasting poison. "Right. There's leftover pasta if you're hungry."

"Thanks, Dad."

I escape back to my room, not hungry for food, my body still humming from Caleb's hands. Still feeling phantom touches everywhere.

Lying in bed, I can't stop replaying it. His hands on my breasts, the weight of him under my palm, how he called my progress 'evident' like I'm some experiment he's conducting. My thighs clench involuntarily.

My phone buzzes: Sweet dreams, virgin. Try not to think about my cock while you study.

I throw my phone across the room so hard it bounces off the wall. But I spend the next hour doing exactly what he said not to.

Saturday morning, I spread my calculus notes across my desk like armor against temptation. Derivatives, integrals, limits—things that used to make perfect sense now look like hieroglyphics.

I make it through exactly two problems before my mind drifts. His lap. His groan. The way he pulled me against him like I belonged there.

My phone buzzes: Want to study? I'll teach you something more useful than math.

I type back with shaking fingers: I actually need to study math. The test is Monday.

Your loss. Offer expires in an hour.

I don't respond, but I spend that hour watching the clock tick down, calculating what I'm missing. When the hour passes, I feel the loss like a physical ache.

Saturday afternoon, another text: Changed my mind. Offer's back on. My house, twenty minutes.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. One hour wouldn't hurt. Maybe if I just let him touch me, get it out of my system, I could focus after. My body's already responding, already wet just from his text.

No. NO.

I turn my phone completely off, but by dinner I've accomplished exactly nothing except drawing his initials in the margins of my notes like a lovesick thirteen-year-old.

Sunday is worse. Surrounded by practice problems, but all I see is his face when I pulled my hand away. All I hear is "not ready yet" playing on loop. Every formula morphs into the memory of his mouth on my neck.

Mia texts: Last minute review? My house?

I respond: Got it covered, thanks.

Another lie added to the pile that's becoming my life.

By Sunday night, I've managed maybe three hours of actual studying all weekend. Three hours for a test worth thirty percent of my grade. I'll have to survive on prior knowledge and desperate prayer.

Monday morning, the test booklet sits on my desk like an execution warrant. The room smells like anxiety and erasers.

Mia slides in beside me, perky and prepared. "How was your weekend prep? I studied for twelve hours straight yesterday. My brain is literally calculus now."

"It was... harder than I thought." The understatement of the century. "I couldn't focus properly."

"You okay? You look exhausted." She touches my arm, concerned.

Before I can craft another lie, Mrs. Harrison's voice cuts through. "You have ninety minutes. Begin."

I flip the booklet open. Problem one stares back at me, familiar but foreign. I know this. I learned this months ago. But the numbers swim like they're underwater.

All I can think about is whether Caleb's in class right now. Whether he's thinking about me. Whether that offer still stands. Whether he's texting some other girl about teaching her something more useful than math.

I force myself to write something, anything, for each problem. Half my work is definitely wrong. Some of it might not even be math. Beside me, Mia's pencil scratches confidently, the sound I used to make when tests were easy.

When Mrs. Harrison calls time, I turn in my paper with shaking hands. It feels like handing over my future.

"You'll receive your grades tomorrow," she announces. "Remember, this counts for thirty percent of your semester grade."

I walk out knowing I've failed. Not just done poorly—actually, properly failed something that matters.

My phone buzzes the second I turn it on: How'd the test go, tutor?

I stare at the message, thumbs paralyzed. What do I say? That I failed because I spent the weekend thinking about his cock instead of calculus? That my perfect GPA is destroyed because I can't stop replaying him calling me desperate?

I don't answer. I don't know what to say.

Yale is slipping through my fingers like water. Everything I've worked for since middle school is crumbling. My father's dreams for me, my own dreams, all of it destroyed.

And the worst part? The absolute worst part that makes me hate myself?

All I can think about is when I'll see him again.