Girl Fight (Rough Lesbian Fight Sex) by Dalia Daudelin Read Free Book Online

My phone buzzes loudly in my purse. Rolling my eyes, I dig the white gadget out and look at the text.
    Are you going to Jack's party?
    Of course I'm going. You'd think these bitches would know better than to ask me such stupid questions. I don't reply with that, though. I have to keep up appearances.
    Of course babe ;)
    Jack is a bit of an interesting topic of discussion, since he's pretty much everyone's dream boy. Tall, deep tan, wonderful hair, and a manly face that still seems to be expressive and thoughtful. I think about him now and then while I touch myself. And what's more: his parents are out of town. I smile to myself. Tonight is his graduation party, and that's where I'll make my move. He'll resist, maybe, but I'll win out in the end. I always do.
    The alarm on my phone goes off. I don't know what I would do without it; it seems to hold my life together. Hopping into my Mustang, I drive to the school and enjoy just being in the moment. She's really pretty, deep blue like Jack's eyes and you can hear her purr like a spoiled kitten when you start her up. 'I do something similar,' I think. 'I should remember that one.' Giggling at my own wit, I turn onto the street next to my school. I'm always thinking of funny stuff to say like that. I'd say it's one of my best traits.
    The seats are almost full when I get there. The last few people are finding theirs, but I know exactly where I belong. I'm near the front—not because I'm some kind of honors dweeb, but I do have good grades. It's just that with a last name like Aaron you get to go first for most things.
    The valedictorian bitch gets up and makes her speech. It's about loving your friends and never forgetting what we learned here. Please. I'm 18 years old and I desperately need to get away from these people. One last conquest, one last high school boy, and I am gone. The Principal, then some other old man and an old woman each make a speech. Each one is longer than the last and way longer than they need to be.
    I simply peck at the screen of my phone until they start calling the names. I slip the phone into my gown's pocket, happy to have been able to bring it. Why would the gowns have pockets if they aren't meant to be used, right?
    I get called. I walk across the stage and get my diploma. It feels good, even though my parents are off in some European country getting drunk rather than congratulating me on my success. Having all the strangers in the audience watching me as I walk across the stage. I don't know if there is anyone there without any friends, who nobody knows—I was nobody's friend, but at least everyone knows me. They're afraid of me, jealous of my looks or fearful of my anger. I smile down at them and think about how Jack will feel inside me.
    Then I'm down the stairs and sitting down and back to texting Kathy.
    The ceremony takes a thousand years and by the end of it my ass is hurting. You'd think an expensive private school would be able to afford something better than dollar store lawn chairs, but it's run by a bunch of old cheap men. Everyone throws their hats even though they told us not to. 80S movie cliches die hard.
    I throw mine, too, just because. It lands across the lawn and I don't bother to pick it back up. Instead of hugging friends goodbye, or looking for any family members that I know aren't here, I decide to just leave.
    Driving home is a buzzkill. Traffic is too thick from students and parents all leaving at the same time. I should have just left as soon as they gave me my diploma. That probably would have been the cooler thing to do anyway.
     
    The hardest part of going out is always getting dressed. Oh, sure. The makeup takes time, and the hair might need an appointment. None of that quite measures up to the soul-rending confusion of getting dressed to go out. Should I go formal and risk being overdressed? Or maybe casual, and risk looking like a slob? Should I wear a skirt to give that special someone ideas of what he could do