How It's Said

Prologue

--Two Weeks Ago--

“Claire! I’m not going to that stupid party!” I shout, holding my hands out in front of me in defense.

“Come on Annabelle, it’s the night before our senior year! You need to go to at least one party before you graduate!”

I sigh, rubbing my hands over my eyes.

“Does it have to be this party?” I ask, looking up at her. Claire is already decked out in her party gear. A short purple lace dress that ends at mid thigh and makes her legs look a mile long. Her brown hair is currently cut into a bob and she has it flat ironed until it is pin straight. Her eyes are highlighted with two coats of eye liner and four coats of mascara. I’m sometimes jealous of Claire’s eyes. Hers are such a pretty brown, nearly caramel in color and so big that they make you think of ice cream.

“What’s wrong with this party?” Claire demands placing her hands on her hips. Claire and I are complete opposites. Where she is tall, I’m short, where she’s curvy with breasts and hips that guys love, I’m slender with a small bust and hips, where she’s tanned, I’m fair skinned, where she has brown hair, I have black. Complete opposites, except in attitude. We have the same fiery temper that annoys each other even though it is exactly the same.

“Um… Maybe that it’s hosted by Eric Rogers?” Eric Rogers is a player, a deliquent, and a complete bad boy. He keeps his hair cropped to his head. People say it’s out of convience, but I think it’s so his victims can see who it is that kills them.

He always wears black; black shirt, black jacket, black jeans, black boots. Everything. He likes to wear a tank top that shows off his arms, which are thick with muscle and covered in tattoos. At eighteen I don’t want to know how he got so many. I honestly don’t care.

The thing that worries me the most is all the piercing. He has them in his eyebrow, his lips, his ears, and some people say, in his nipples. I hate to succumb to gossip and believe what people say about others when I don’t know them, but I have to believe that most of what is said is true. A man that has seen everything and done everything can’t possible have anything false said about them because he’s already done it.

“Oh come on, Annie, you don’t even know him!” Claire raises an eyebrow, daring me to say anything else.

“Fine, I’ll go.” I grumble. I hate when Claire does the eyebrow. She got the look from her mother, and both of them can pull it and get their way. Not fair if you ask me.

A half hour later I have my hair pulled into a tight pony tail, the locks hanging in loose curls out of the hair tie. My makeup is heavy with thick eye liner and even thicker mascara lining my eyes. The blackness of the eye makeup makes the blueness of my eyes stand out in sharp contrast. It’s kind of sexy.

My cheeks have a hint of blush on them, just enough to be rosy. My lips, on the other hand, are a dark pink, not hot pink, but as dark and lush as my lips. A natural pink that doesn’t challenge my eyes to be the feature item.

The dress I’m borrowing from Claire makes me look “So damn sexy” according to her. I think it makes me look like a “fucking slut”. But what do I know? I’m just the lonely track girl.

The dress in question is a short skin tight black dress that has two dangerous v-necks. The one in the front dips between my breasts and shows more skin than I would like. The back v-neck is even longer, resting just above my ass. The neckline trails down my back in such a way that from behind if it weren’t for the sleeves, it wouldn’t look like I was wearing a dress.

My feet are encased in six inch “slut” heels that make the muscles in my legs flex when I’m standing still. All those hours of running have paid off.