Punk 57 (33 page)

What?

I stare at him, appalled, but he just climbs out of the truck and jogs for the house.

Excuse me?

I push open the door, jump out, and slam it behind me, chasing after him. “I can’t believe you!” I whisper-yell, catching up to him in the middle of Trey’s lawn. “You won’t tell me anything, and now you’re breaking and entering, and you’re involving me? I could get into trouble, and yes, I don’t mean to seem like a hypocrite, being Punk and all, but I don’t want to do this.”

He stops, and I clutch my phone in my hand, kind of wanting to throw it at him. Where the hell does he get off? He has friends. Why not ask them?

“Why would you ask me to do this?” I demand.

“Because it’s important.”

He glares at me, but I don’t think he’s angry.

Letting out a breath, his expression softens as he approaches me. “Because I need what’s in there, and because…you’re the one I trust. You’re the one I want here.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I’m serious, Ryen. Trust me, would you?”

“I trust people who don’t deliberately put me in danger,” I shoot back. “I thought we were doing something at the Cove or climbing a water tower or something. Not breaking into the principal’s house.”

“You break into the principal’s school,” he points out.

I twist up my lips, folding my arms over my chest.
Jerk.

He regards me for a moment and then drops his eyes. Taking my hand, he places his keys in my palm. “You’re right. Go ahead and take the truck to your house. I’ll meet you there,” he tells me, relenting. “It’s only a mile away. I can walk it.”

What? No—

But he turns around and walks for Trey’s house, not giving me a chance to protest. I don’t want to get in trouble, but I don’t want him getting in trouble, either.

Something of his is in the house. So we’re not taking anything that doesn’t belong to them then. Okay.

I let out a sigh and run after him.

Just go. Don’t think.

I wonder how many people who got prison sentences said the same thing when they committed their crimes.

I see him head for the front door, digging something out of his pocket, but I eye the doggy door on the garage and then look around me. Anyone could drive by or a neighbor could possibly spot Masen at the door, trying to get in.

“The doggy door is a better idea,” I tell him, knowing Trey’s parents probably took the Husky with them to the game.

He jerks his head, eyeing the rectangular hole in the door. “I can’t fit through there.”

Of course not. Their dog is big but not that big.

I shake my head, hesitating for a moment. But then I heave a sigh and move toward the door.

I can try to convince myself that I know this house, having been here before, and I can get him through it and try to find what he needs a lot faster than he can. But the truth is, I want to know what he’s looking for and why. So far he’s been like a ghost, and I’m curious.

Crouching down, I push my hand through the doggy door, listening for feet to come running or a bark. But all I hear is leaves rustling in the wind.

Mason comes up behind me, and I stick my head through, seeing only the inside of the pitch-black garage. Sliding my arm in, I turn on my side, maneuver my shoulders through the tight space, and put my hands down on the cold cement floor, wiggling my body through the small hole.

I inhale the musty air and make out the little, green dot of light by the kitchen door, guessing that must be the opener.

Stepping cautiously in the dark, I hold out my hands and move toward the door, trying to avoid the pool table, couch, and other furnishings I know are in the converted man-cave.

“Don’t turn on any lights,” Masen calls.

“Duh.” My foot hits the step, and I reach out my hand, pressing the button for the opener. The motor starts turning, and the garage door begins to lift up. Masen bends down and slides in under the door, and I press the button, lowering it again.

I twist the handle to the kitchen door and open it, immediately seeing moonlight streaming through a large kitchen window. Masen comes in behind me, closing the door, and I inhale, smelling Trey. It’s funny how people smell like their houses. Or vice versa.

Combinations of leather and wood furniture, Febreeze, laundry soap, the different colognes and perfumes your parents and siblings use, the food your family cooks…all coming together to create a single, solitary scent in your house.

Except Masen. He smells like the leather from his truck with a hint of soap. That’s it.

“Let’s go.”

He leads me through the house, looking around as if figuring out where to go, which I could tell him if I knew what he was looking for. But rounding the stairs, he jogs up, and I follow.

“Are you going to Trey’s room?” I ask.

“If so, I’ll find it,” he bites out. “I don’t need to know that you know where it is.”

I smile to myself. “I don’t. I was just asking.”

He opens a door, and I peer into the darkness, seeing pink walls and toy hot air balloons hanging from the ceiling.

It must be Emma’s room. Trey’s half-sister. I know Principal Burrowes married Trey’s dad when Trey was about four. Even though he calls her Gillian and doesn’t treat her like a mom, she practically raised him and then gave birth to a daughter several years younger than Trey.

I look at Masen, wondering why he’s not closing the door. What he needs can’t possibly be in here. Emma is only like six. She didn’t steal anything from him.

But he just stands there, letting his eyes drift around the room. His chest moves with his shallow breaths.

“Masen?” I prompt.

But he doesn’t answer.

I touch his arm. “Masen?” I say louder. “What are we looking for? I want to get out of here.”

He blinks, turning away, almost like he’s angry. “Alright, come on.”

He leaves the room, and I shut the door again, catching a flash of movement. The shadows of the leaves outside the hall window dance over the carpet, and my heart skips a beat.

Walking to the next door, Masen strolls in and stops for just a moment, looking around. Heading for the armoire, he pulls open a drawer and takes out a small flashlight from his pocket. He clicks on the small light and starts inspecting the jewelry case.

“You can’t be serious?” I bark in a whisper, stepping up to him. “Did the principal steal your favorite string of pearls?”

“It’s a long story, babe.” He pulls open drawer after drawer, quickly scanning the contents and shuffling items around, searching for what? I don’t know.

“And I’m fascinated,” I retort. “But if you steal anything, I’ll make you bleed.”

“Hold this.” He shoves the flashlight at me. “I won’t take anything that’s not already mine.”

“What’s yours? What are we looking for?”

“A watch.”

A watch? “Why would the Burrowes have your watch?” I ask, confused.

“Later,” he says. “Now hold up the light.”

I purse my lips, growing impatient. But I hold up the light and shine it on the drawers he’s sifting through. I follow him when he moves to the dresser, dipping his hands in sweaters and shirts, feeling around.

“So do you want to take a shower tonight?” He glances up at me.

I frown. He’s flirting? Really?

He chuckles. “I don’t really need one, but I’d love to wipe that little scowl off your face, and I’ll bet you’ll feel good wet.”

I shake my head, trying to look unamused at his shitty choice of timing for dirty talk.

Although a hot shower with him, kissing and touching him, sounds really good.

“Just hurry up,” I whisper, wiggling my legs underneath me, getting anxious.

He searches the rest of the room—some small boxes in the closet and the bedside drawers—while I hold the light, waiting for him to give up, so we can just get out of here. But he pauses briefly, standing at the foot of the bed, thinking.

And then, before I have a chance to push him again to get us out of here, he whips around and heads out of the room and across the hall.

Trey’s room.
Finally.
I expected him to search there first. I don’t know why Trey would have anything of his, but he’d be a hell of a lot more likely to steal something from Masen than the parents.

Glancing around the principal’s bedroom, I make sure everything is put back in place—closets and drawers closed—and shut the bedroom door, hustling across the hall and following him into Trey’s room.

I brave a glance around. I should feel guilty that I’m sneaking around the room of the guy I’m going to prom with, but I let my gaze fall on his queen-sized bed, a navy blue comforter with gray sheets, and I feel a shiver crawl up my arms instead.

There’s no way I ever want to lie in there with him.

I watch Masen open the bedside drawer and pick up a box of condoms, flashing it to me over his shoulder.

“What do you think?” he teases. “Is he stocking up for prom?”

Oh, whatever
. “You know, you keep bringing up prom,” I point out, stepping up behind him and whispering in his ear. “If you’re that worried about what might happen with those condoms, maybe you should do something about it.”

I feel his body shake with a quiet laugh as he tosses the box back into the drawer.

“Ask me,” I whisper, running my lip over his lobe. “Ask me, and I’ll say yes.”

He leans into my mouth, looking at me. “Maybe tomorrow.”

I push away, displeased. “Douchebag.”

He chuckles behind me. I flash the light around the room as Masen makes his way over to the dresser and opens the left drawer, mussing the socks as he digs.

But I notice something in the dark and pinch my eyebrows together, coming over and reaching in, touching his hand.

“This drawer should be deeper,” I tell him, my fingers hitting a plank of wood. I’d noticed his hand and wrist in the drawer when the depth should’ve eaten up half his forearm.

We both feel around, and Masen narrows his eyes, finding something and pulling on it.

He lifts up the piece of wood, the clothes fall back, and I see another compartment underneath.

Masen reaches in and pulls out what looks like a stack of cards. He turns them over and looks at them, but then he drops his hand back into the drawer, stuffing the cards back into the compartment.

“What?” I prod, reaching in and trying to grab the stack away from him.

“It’s nothing.” He tries to replace the board. “It’s not what I’m looking for.”

But I force my way in and rip the stack out of his hand.

Shooting him a joking little scowl, I turn the cards over and look at them.

My chest caves.
Oh, my God
.

They’re not cards. They’re pictures. Four by sixes by the looks of it, and I stare at each image, shuffling the cards one after another, my stomach churning.

Lindsey Beck, a senior who graduated last year.

Fara Corelli, a senior in my class this year.

Abigail Dunst, another senior.

Sylvie Lanquist, a junior.

Georgia York. J.D.’s older sister. He probably doesn’t have any idea about that.

Girl after girl, naked and in a variety of different poses. Some of them are selfies, some of them taken by someone else, and in one of them, Trey has a girl straddling him. His face holds a sleazy smile.

Disgusted, I curl my fingers around the pictures.

Brandy Matthews is naked and on her hands and knees, the camera catching the side of her face as Trey, I would assume, kneels behind her and takes the picture.

My heart races, and I feel like it’s going to jump out of my chest. I shuffle the next card and see Sylvie, her mouth open and…

I drop my hands, looking away.
Gross
.

My God. What’s wrong with him? Who takes pictures of that many women—girls—committing sexual acts? Did they know he was doing it to all of them? And Sylvie’s the sweetest kid. How long did he sweet-talk her to get what he wanted?

“I’m sorry, babe.”

I scoff, tossing the pics on the dresser. “You think I don’t know what he’s about?”

“Well, you are still going to prom with him.”

I shoot a look over to him, aggravated he keeps bringing that up.

No
. I’m not going to prom with Trey. Not anymore. If he treats girls he’s able to get naked like that, how will he treat someone he can’t get into bed?

But I won’t tell Masen that. He’ll just gloat.

I look down and see another picture in his hand and inch forward. “What is that?”

He hoods his eyes, shaking his head like I need to leave it alone. I dart out and snatch the picture, holding it up in front of me.

Lyla is naked and wet, her hair soaked and sticking to her cheeks and neck, and she’s posing against what looks like a shower wall, her arms over her head and her breasts on display. Her eyes taunt the camera—or whoever’s behind it.