A video link.

His thumb hovered, sweaty and shaking, before tapping it.

The screen filled with Jamal’s smug, sweaty face, the camera angled down at some blonde chick—Brittany, fuck, he recognized her from chem—on her knees, lips stretched around Jamal’s dick. Her mascara was smeared, cheeks hollowed like a fucking porn star. The audio was muffled but Jamal’s voice cut through, rough and laughing: "Yeah, take that shit, white girl—"

Then the camera jerked, zooming in as Jamal’s hips stuttered, his free hand gripping her ponytail tight. Thick ropes of cum splattered across Brittany’s face, her tongue darting out to catch some before it dripped onto her cheer top. The video froze. A text popped up underneath:

"Your sister next?"

John’s stomach dropped. His fingers clenched around the phone so hard the plastic case creaked.

Grace leaned over, her vanilla scent suddenly suffocating. "Dude, you look like you’re gonna puke—"

John slammed his phone face-down on the desk.