Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

I laugh under my breath. What would she do if I told her right now?
She’d believe it. Clay isn’t stupid.
I narrow my eyes. I don’t want to tell her yet, though.
“Megan Martelle?” she asks, inching in. “Is that who you’re partying
with?”
She’s especially obsessed with our coach’s assistant. Why?
When I say nothing, she backs away, a gleam in her eyes as she holds
mine and digs in her duffel bag. Pulling out her phone, she starts tapping
away. “Olivia Jaeger has a key to earn her A,” she recites as she types. “To
Martelle’s apartment, so Teach can tongue her cunt all day…”
I take a step toward her. My enjoyment is gone.
She looks up, cocking her head. “That’s only a hundred characters,” she
muses. “Still so much space.”
A tweet has two-hundred-eighty. I tense. She’s not going to tweet that.
She wouldn’t.
“What rhymes with strap-on?” she inquires, an innocent pinch between
her brows.
I lunge for the phone, ready to show her exactly how well she’d fare on
my side of the tracks.
“Just because I don’t fucking punch you doesn’t mean I wasn’t taught
how,” I growl. “Knock it off.”
But she slips back, holding her phone. “Drop your bra,” she tells me
instead.
I lift my chin. What the hell is wrong with her?
“Drop your bra!” she bellows.
I startle, wincing. “Drop your phone.”
I’ll drop my bra for her, but no pictures.
She sets it down but grabs a Sharpie off the table, instead. Walking
slowly, she stops in front of me, and I keep my eyes locked on hers as I reach
behind me, unhook my black sports bra, and let it fall to the floor.
I hold back my flinch at the goddamn amusement written all over her
face.
Let her make fun of me. Let her say what she’s going to say. She doesn’t
want to send that tweet. Not really. This is what she wants. Me humiliated.
She doesn’t do anything for several moments, almost as if she’s trying to
decide what to do at all, but then…
She lowers her gaze.