I don't know what that means. But the way his voice roughened has me shifting once again.
“We'll see,” I retort, feeling as if I just issued a challenge. His darkening eyes seem to confirm that.
I almost expect him to shatter the pretense that this is an innocent sleepover and strip me down where I stand. Instead, he turns away and gestures for me to follow him.
I can't decipher why I feel disappointed by that, just that I do.
“The guest bedroom is this way,” he calls. It takes an extra second to unglue my feet from the wooden floor and follow him. “Do you need to shower?”
That question nearly stops me in my tracks again. I had a shower at the motel I stayed in last night, but the water pressure was comparable to a yard sprinkler, the drain was clogged, and the tub held more rust and grime than soap.
A shower in a place like this just might be the closest to heaven I'll ever get.
“Y-yeah, if you don’t mind,” I manage. However, the second the words leave my mouth, I wonder if I’m being incredibly stupid. Or rather, stupid-er. Showering in a stranger’s home, naked and vulnerable. Not that I’m much more protected with a scrappy t-shirt and torn jeans, but at least I’d die with a bit of dignity.
“I have a towel and washcloth for you. A spare toothbrush, too, if you need it. Even razors.”
I chew my bottom lip, feeling a small burst of excitement. Admittedly, it’s been a long time since I’ve had the luxury of shaving my legs.
“All of it,” I rush out, then instantly flush with embarrassment over my clear desperation for a decent shower. Clearing my throat, I tack on, “Please.”
I can’t see his face, but I know he’s grinning.
He leads me into a spacious hallway, where an ornate gothic stone bench is placed on the left side, an array of different plants covering it, and beautiful artwork surrounding it. We veer off to the left and enter through double doors that open into a massive bedroom.
“This is the guest bedroom?” I ask incredulously, taking in the biggest bed I’ve ever seen covered in soft black sheets, the crackling fireplace on the opposite wall, and the white ceiling with beautiful black wooden beams lining across it.
“One of them, yeah.”
“I can’t imagine what the master looks like then,” I mumble, a funny look passing over my face.
He turns, a devilish look on his face as he asks, “Would you like to see it?”
“Nope. Bigger isn’t always better,” I quip, noting the open door to my left where I can see a black stone vanity. I head toward it without waiting for his response, and his burning stare doesn’t abate as it follows me. “I assume the bathroom is already stocked with what I need?”
“Sure is,” he drawls deeply.
My stomach flutters as I hurry into the bathroom, too much of a chicken to spare him a glance. By the time I get the door shut and lean heavily against it, my heart is pounding.
He'll be waiting for me to finish, and what comes after will be something I've never done before.
I'm going to fuck him.
And for the first time, it'll be my choice.
I'm so fucking nervous, but it doesn't feel… bad. In fact, it’s exhilarating. It's a foreign emotion, but I can understand why people get addicted to it.
Because at this moment, I've never felt more alive.
Cage
Present
2022
When I was a kid, my grandma once convinced me that my mother came out of the womb talking.
I'm still convinced of it.
“So, I told her, ‘Ma'am, if you're going to keep talkin' all that shit, at least carry some toilet paper with you to wipe your damn mouth.’”
Molly cups a hand over her smiling lips, green eyes glittering with mirth as she shakes her head at my mom.
She used to embarrass the absolute shit out of me and Olivia. But once we lost my sister, I found a new appreciation for her eccentric personality. She's all I have in this world, and despite her utter heartbreak over her daughter's death, she always showed up for me. Never let me down, despite how hard the world tried to kick her to the ground.
“I don't like bullies. What do you kids call 'em these days? Karens? Well, she was one of them. Except I just called her what she really is, which is a defective sperm that grew too much of a mouth instead of a brain.”
“You're such a poet, Ma,” I comment dryly.
The tiger lilies I had just bought Mom are arranged in the crystal vase she’s had for decades at the center of the dinner table, our empty plates and wineglasses in front of us.