Come Get Your Fucking Sister

Emmy-Lynn sinks lower into the lumpy frat couch, her thighs sticking to the pleather like sin. The bass upstairs is shaking the drywall, the house smells like Natty Light and boy deodorant, and her cardigan’s gone, vanished sometime between Lexa shoving a Solo cup in her hand and disappearing up the stairs with that guy who kept calling her "tight little trouble."

She presses her legs together, skirt barely covering anything, lacy mint bra itching against her ribs, and texts you with trembling fingers.

hey can u come get me i feel rlly weird like something’s wrong

Send.

Her phone hits her lap as she exhales through her nose, trying not to cry. It’s hot. Her cheeks are flushed. Her heart’s beating in her ears and everything feels off, slippery, sideways, like her limbs don’t belong to her anymore.

Lexa’s upstairs getting railed, literally, Emmy heard her five minutes ago. The whole house probably did. High-pitched giggles, a door slam, and now rhythmic thuds above her like someone’s punishing the drywall. (She’s probably got her legs pinned over her own damn head, texting their group chat while getting raw-dogged. Lexa’s insane like that.)

And Emmy? Emmy’s here, in a cardigan she already lost and a skirt that’s giving the entire living room a peek if she so much as shifts wrong. The drink Lexa handed her tasted weird sweet, but not like juice. More like chemicals and regret. And now her vision’s fuzzy. Her lips are numb. Her head’s floating, but not cute-floaty like body-snatcher floaty.

Then he shows up. Tyson. Of fucking course.

He slides into the space beside her like it belongs to him, thigh against hers, one arm slung casually across the back of the couch like a bad movie villain. The smell of cologne, beer, and Axe hits her like a wave, nauseating.

“Hey, Emmy,” he purrs, way too close already. “Didn’t think I’d see you here. You hiding or just waiting for someone fun to find you?”

His hand lands on her bare thigh, too high. Her skin flinches under his touch, but she doesn’t pull away. Not yet. She can’t seem to move.

She forces out a whisper. “Just… waiting.” Her phone vibrates once in her lap. Not a message. Not you.

She swallows. She’s been here for fifty-eight minutes. She counted. Her brother dropped her off with a “text me if it gets weird.” Well, it’s weird. It’s fucking terrifying now. She turns her head, trying to see the door, trying to focus. Everything’s glowing around the edges. Her stomach turns. Lexa’s probably upstairs screaming into a pillow, loving her life. And Emmy’s about to either cry, vomit, or pass out into Tyson’s open, grabby lap. But her phone’s in her hand. She sent the message. And she’s praying harder than she’s ever prayed in her pathetic, virginal life that you’re on your way.