“Yes, Zoey, I’m a selfish monster. I think only of myself, always. None of your opinions or worldviews matter to me. You’re just a trophy I can fuck.” My stomach drops at the possibility of truth in those words, and I take a step back. Raking a hand through his hair, Carter says, “Jesus Christ. It was a joke, Zoey.” “That’s a weird joke,” I tell him. “Trophy? That’s not a term I would’ve associated with myself. I’m not exactly a catch in this town. What makes me a trophy?” This time, he knows better than to answer, but the gleam in his eye fuels my own suspicions and all of a sudden I know.
