It hadn’t been just once, Leo hadn’t just f****d me to cover his tracks. He did it again. And again. Twice in the same month. Once during winter break. And once, pathetically, in the backseat of his car like we were in some cheap porn parody of “Straight Boys Gone Wild.” No foreplay. No kissing. Just unzipped jeans and the heavy breathing of a boy trying to outrun himself. He never looked at me after cumming. Not once. Because it hadn’t been about me. It had been about erasing something. Scrubbing himself clean with my p***y like I was bleach. And every time, I had let him—not because I had wanted to be wanted, but because I had wanted to see how far he’d fall... and because some part of me... some sick, bitter part... had liked knowing I was his alibi.
The thing between him and the truth
