Sequel: Saving Sloane Winters ›
Status: COMPLETE! Check out the sequel 'Saving Sloane Winters'.
Finding Sloane Winters Crazy
T H I R T E E N
Sarah Louise Cook
Is very hormonal
Is about to do something she’ll regret
It’s dark outside, the slightly crisp cold late Autumn weather is biting in my exposed legs, which are hardly covered by the short tight dress I am wearing.
I’m giggling, my mind is hazed from all the alcohol previously consumed.
I was partying. And there’s a guy with light brown hair dancing with me.
Sloane had dropped me off at Matt’s (a close friend of Patrick) house for the party, much to her distaste. I remember her pulling at the ends of her oversized cashmere sweater, her pearly whites biting down onto her full lips, eyes scouring the party, searching for a familiar face, then the blue green of her orbs stop on me, on my body, her lips turn down into a frown.
“Is that all you’re wearing?” She asks quietly, eyes narrowing in distaste at my skimpy magenta dress.
“Yeah,” I mutter, eager to get out and feel the wonderful excitement and rush of the trouble of binge drinking, “What the hell’s wrong with it? It doesn’t match with my heels, does it?” I peer over to my six inch stilettos, purple painted toes peeking out.
She sighs, muttering something under her breath, before reaching into the backseat and chucking her cropped leather jacket at me. “Wear that, it’s fucking April, and I’ll bet you’re not coming back tonight.”
I nod, “I’ll catch a ride from Patrick, if I can.”
Sloane raises a brow, translation: we both know you don’t mean what you’re saying. But then she reaches over to the open car door and closes it, running a hand through her dark blonde hair. “Use a condom and don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
I roll my eyes, making my way across the street to the house where there’s already dancing teenagers and loud music, “Yes mum!”
But I didn’t listen to her.
I’m stumbling over the smooth carpet, quickly removing my heels. There are hands on my body, everywhere, moving onto my waist, onto my backside, in my hair, unzipping my dress from behind, directing me towards a double bed.
The sheets have a floral pattern on them. And I vaguely remember that Bess likes floral.
Then I’m lying down, someone who is definitely not Patrick is on top of me, his lips on my neck, hands on either side of me, and our bodies are moulding together as one.
Is very hormonal
Is about to do something she’ll regret
It’s dark outside, the slightly crisp cold late Autumn weather is biting in my exposed legs, which are hardly covered by the short tight dress I am wearing.
I’m giggling, my mind is hazed from all the alcohol previously consumed.
I was partying. And there’s a guy with light brown hair dancing with me.
Sloane had dropped me off at Matt’s (a close friend of Patrick) house for the party, much to her distaste. I remember her pulling at the ends of her oversized cashmere sweater, her pearly whites biting down onto her full lips, eyes scouring the party, searching for a familiar face, then the blue green of her orbs stop on me, on my body, her lips turn down into a frown.
“Is that all you’re wearing?” She asks quietly, eyes narrowing in distaste at my skimpy magenta dress.
“Yeah,” I mutter, eager to get out and feel the wonderful excitement and rush of the trouble of binge drinking, “What the hell’s wrong with it? It doesn’t match with my heels, does it?” I peer over to my six inch stilettos, purple painted toes peeking out.
She sighs, muttering something under her breath, before reaching into the backseat and chucking her cropped leather jacket at me. “Wear that, it’s fucking April, and I’ll bet you’re not coming back tonight.”
I nod, “I’ll catch a ride from Patrick, if I can.”
Sloane raises a brow, translation: we both know you don’t mean what you’re saying. But then she reaches over to the open car door and closes it, running a hand through her dark blonde hair. “Use a condom and don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
I roll my eyes, making my way across the street to the house where there’s already dancing teenagers and loud music, “Yes mum!”
But I didn’t listen to her.
I’m stumbling over the smooth carpet, quickly removing my heels. There are hands on my body, everywhere, moving onto my waist, onto my backside, in my hair, unzipping my dress from behind, directing me towards a double bed.
The sheets have a floral pattern on them. And I vaguely remember that Bess likes floral.
Then I’m lying down, someone who is definitely not Patrick is on top of me, his lips on my neck, hands on either side of me, and our bodies are moulding together as one.
♠ ♠ ♠
The night is young whilst I type this! And I am curled up in my warm and cosy room, lying on my plush armchair and squinting my eyes to read whatever I'm typing. This chapter is crap, okay? Valentine's Day, and I am forever alone.