I may as well have been in a rape van full of puppies. That’s how fucking easy it was to get you to surrender to my every demand. You just didn’t know you were doing it.

T-shirts? I mean, come on. For a smart girl, you were pretty fuckin’ thick when it came to me. You were a good lay, though, I’ll give you that much. Always disgustingly wet, hot and ready for me. And tight. Fuck, you were tight.

The night you worked on my spreadsheets, swear I fuckin’ got hard thinkin’ about all the money you’d be makin’ me. You wouldn’t stop talking, and I couldn’t stop lookin’ at you. No denying you were beautiful, all sweet innocence and more brains than I knew what to do with.

I went down on you to show you my appreciation.

You came screaming my name, fingers gripping my hair, and I loved every moment of it.

When I came up for air, and you offered to do the same for me, I declined.

First time that ever fuckin’ happened.

It was also the first time I actually thought about what my actions would do to you. I didn’t love you. Not for shit. But I think, that night, it was the first time I realized I cared about you. And it’s not like I didn’t know you or like you. It would be impossible to spend every single second together with my cock deep inside you. We talked some. Watched TV and shit. Things boyfriends are supposed to do with their girlfriends. We’d sit down in the den on the big sectional sofa. You’d curl into me, all soft and sweet, your hand on my stomach while I had my arm around your waist. You’d laugh at the funny scenes in the movie, sometimes snort, and it was cute, you know? How sixteen-year-old girls are supposed to be.

I woke up late the mornin’ after you reworked my entire scheme to you walking into the room wearing nothing but my shirt, holdin’ a tray. You smiled at me, the way you did sometimes when I knew I had you in the palm of my hand. “Breakfast,” you said, your voice hoarse from sleep.

You made me breakfast in bed.

Another fuckin’ first.

We spent the morning in bed together, eating the food you’d made in my kitchen. And we talked. Laughed. Enjoyed each other’s company as if it were completely normal.

That’s when I knew I had to cut that shit out.

Move to the next step.

And fast.

A conversation with your grandpa and some paperwork later, your grandparents and I waited for you to get home from school. Your eyes widened when you saw me—all relaxed and shit on the sofa in your house. I gave you the slightest head shake, a warning not to blow it.

You didn’t.

Such a good girl.

As agreed with your grandpa, I offered you a job. “Two nights a week,” I told you. “Whenever you’re free. Sometimes more. Sometimes less.” I don’t think you blinked once while I spoke, so I kept going. “I don’t have money to pay you,” I said. “But I have the deed to my car. That yellow Mustang. I know it’s old—”

“You’re going to give me your car?” you asked, all doe-eyed and loved up. Luckily, your grandparents didn’t pick up on it. But your reaction was what I’d hoped for. Yes, I was givin’ you a car. I also knew your brat of a sister was always using your shared car and never let you near it.

Your cheeks bloomed pink, and if we were alone, I knew you’d be on me. You always wanted me. “When do you want me to start, Mr. Rossi?”

Fuck, you were good.

You sat in your new car that night, your hands on the wheel, your smile so big that for a second I let myself have that moment. I’d made you happy, and regardless of what you think of me, that filled my fuckin’ heart with pride, baby.

“I can’t believe you’re giving me this car,” you said.

“It’s just a car,” I told you. “Besides, now you can come see me whenever. And that—that’s a gift for me.”

I’m going to be honest now, which obviously isn’t something you’d expect from me. That day, when I saw your eyes light up, when you leaned across the car and kissed me slowly, carefully, like you were takin’ me in for the first time, when you told me you loved me, too... that was the day the lines got blurred. The day I could no longer tell my own bullshit from truth.