Jackie puts you in red for the party, a dress that barely reaches your knees, a flirty hem that flips up easily with the cold night's breeze. (Or with her boyfriend's hands as you straddle him, chilled fingers rounding your thighs, shoving aside the panties you stole from her room when she wasn't looking.) She paints your face, powder for your cheeks, a dark line for your eyes, but red again pressed to your lips (and smeared across his neck as your bury your face there, clutching him tight and trying to be so, so quiet).

"You look beautiful," she says, standing behind you in the mirror.

(You hold his face in your hands; her brown eyes blink back at you.)

"Shut up," you say, eyes flicking down. But you stay still as she brushes down your dress, smoothing the fabric along your hips.

("Tell me you love me," you ask, hating how much you need it. He complies in breathy moans as he thrusts inside, a delicious pain radiating through your body.

"I love you, Shauna," he says again and again, but the only voice you hear is hers.)