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I hesitate. I know accepting her offer is the best option I have, but still…buying a night in a hotel just to get my rocks off? It feels so extreme.
“Thanks, but I’m okay,” I say firmly.
Slipping on my sneakers, I grab my keys off the kitchen counter and head toward the door. I’m hoping some fresh air does something for me that I couldn’t do for myself.
“It’s your call, but I think you’ll go crazy if you don’t do this,” she warns.
“I’ll think about it,” I promise her. “Hey, are we still on for coffee later?”
“Sure.” She pauses. “Just make sure you wash your hands.”Out of breath, I sit down on a grassy area of the park and chug back half a bottle of water in one hit. Not even a jog has helped to relieve some of the tension pent up inside me. The more I think about it, the more seriously I consider Lou’s offer.
I could just go there and get done in minutes what I’ve been trying to accomplish for weeks. I can even kid myself and call it a well-deserved vacation from my sister, rather than what it really is. Then again, a vacation from Sara would be almost as good as climaxing—in a totally non-creepy way.
My sister and I have never got along, but things have been worse over the last few years. My biggest problem isn’t even with Sara. It’s Mom and her double standards. Sara gets away with everything, because in Mom’s eyes, she’s perfect. Like last year, when Sara disappeared for weeks, without telling anyone. She called Mom up with some piss weak excuse that Mom totally gobbled up. Yet I don’t answer my phone once and the police breaking down my door five minutes later, because Mom’s convinced them I’ve drowned myself in the bath.
My phone buzzes, dragging me from my thoughts. I slide it from my pocket with caution, sure it’s going to be Mom. I haven’t heard from her in all of five minutes, after all.
But it’s not Mom. It’s worse.
Sara: We need milk. And bread. Also, more of that chocolate you had hidden behind the coffee. Maybe two of those?
Bitch.
Taking over my house is one thing, but stealing my chocolate?
Shit just got real.
I resist the urge to call her and abuse her, because that feels a little bit psychotic. It’s not even the chocolate that bothers me. Okay, it is a little bit, but it’s mostly the fact that she treats me like I’m her freaking slave. My apartment isn’t a hotel, nor do I need to bow to her every demand.
We’re out of milk? Get off your fucking ass and go out and buy some more. I’m sorry you got fired for sleeping with your boss’s wife—yes, wife—but find yourself another job and set an example for your daughter, before she turns out like you.
Me: Sorry. Out tonight. There’s a store two blocks away though.
The reply is almost immediate.
Sara: Out where? When will you be back? Was going to ask you to look after S for me.
I snort. Why is it any of her business where I’m going or how long I’ll be gone for? I sigh and bash out another response, then I retype it because the first attempt sounded a little too harsh. The last thing I need is a call from Mom because Sara has gone whining to her.
Me: She’s 16. Pretty sure S can look after herself. I’ll be home later. Or tomorrow. Does it matter?
I close my messages and navigate to my contacts to call Lou, but before I can press on her name, a forwarded email from The Royal Hotel pops up. I smirk as I open the email. How about that. Someone booked me a room for tonight. I snort when I read the personalized message from Lou.
Enjoy your night of uninterrupted, pure satisfaction, Bitch.
Love you xxx
Uninterrupted satisfaction?
Yeah, I could definitely go for some of that.Chapter 2HannahI nudge the bag by my feet to make sure it’s still there, and then I fixate my smile on the attendant who’s checking me in. Who would have thought a bag full of sex toys could make someone so paranoid? Sure, eight vibrators might be overkill, but until Uber venture into sex toy delivery, I was determined to come prepared—no pun intended.
If I’d only packed one, my luck would guarantee it dying on me, but what are the chances of it happening to all eight? Then again, if that was going to happen to anyone, it would be me. I shake off my doubts and force myself to think positively. Short of a fire and mass evacuation, I’m coming tonight.
“So, Miss Billings, what brings you to The Royal this fine evening? Business or pleasure?”
“Business,” I say firmly, not wanting to associate the word “pleasure” and this guy under any circumstance. Ever. I’m not sure if it’s the eighties porn mustache he’s rocking or the slicked back hair, but there’s something about him that’s not doing it for me.
