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I fling his hand off of me and step back, hating how our proximity sent my heart racing. “It’s just a braid,” I deadpan, pleased when my voice comes out even and not breathy, because Jesus-H-Christ, when he yanked on my hair like that, all I wanted to do was say yes please, more please.
He shrugs. “Do you work on Monday?”
My heart plummets, and my libido dies a fast death. “Why?” I ask, but I already know.
“Colton and I just need the house for a few hours.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m sorry, what?”
West sighs. “It’s not what you think.”
“Really? Because it sounds to me like you’re asking me to vacate our house for you to have a sex party. Which is bullshit, because we have a no hookups rule.”
“Actually.” West steps into me again. “You haven’t signed the rental agreement yet, so…”
Red tinges my vision. “Then give me a pen.”
I expect him to retort with some smartass comment, but instead he slides open the top drawer of the island and snags a manila folder and a pen. “Here you go.”
I scrawl my name at the bottom and pass it back to him. “There. Find somewhere else to”—I wave my hand in the air—“do whatever.”
His kissable lips tip up. “I’ll let Colton know we need to arrange for a new location.”
A hurt I can’t explain wraps itself around me, whispering into my ear how foolish I am. Unable to look him in the eye, I nod, grab my purse, and flee.
“Are you sure about this?” AJ asks as we walk into what is usually the happiest place on earth—otherwise known as Target.
What a loaded question—one that washes away my trivial West-worries. “Yes,” I say. And I am. But, also, I’m not. It’s complicated, but I feel like it’s what I need to do to help my family.
The last few times I heard from Dad, he’s sounded worse and worse. Never in my life have I heard him sound so hopeless. At the start of this shit, he was positive and ready to fight. Now, he seems resigned and depressed, and I hate it.
I hate hearing him hurt. I hate seeing my mother withering away. I hate that my grandparents are digging themselves deeper and deeper into debt.
Most of all, I hate that I feel like I’m out of options. Sure, I’m looking for a more traditional second job, but I still need more. I could probably even get a small personal loan—emphasis on the word small. But Virtual Kitty not only pays well, they pay fast.
“If you say so,” AJ hedges, as if she’s waiting on me to change my mind.
“Positive.” I grab her hand. “C’mon, I think the tripods are this way.”
“Gah! Who knew there’d be so many?” she asks, staring at the display.
“Right?” Finally, I settle on a short one with bendy legs that can wrap around things. “This should work!”
We check out, hit up the Starbucks, and go our separate ways. The entire drive home, I say a prayer that West isn’t there. I’m honestly not sure I can deal with seeing him right now.
It seems as though luck is on my side when West’s car is absent from the driveway when I get home. I fly up to my room and get to work, not wasting a precious second. Mostly because I don’t want to lose my nerve, but also because I have no clue when he’ll be back.
In my bathroom, I carefully paint my face. Once I’m contoured to perfection with a heavy smoky eye and candy-apple red lips, I step back into my room to get dressed—well, undressed.
I opt for black lace, knowing it will make my body art, lips, and hair pop.
It takes me longer than I thought to get the tripod, phone, lighting, and the angle of my body just right—let me just say, no woman should have to see those types of outtakes of her own body.
Once I find my groove, I manage to capture several appealing poses. However, I know if I want to catch their attention, I need to up my game.
I strip down to nude and carefully arrange myself so I’m exposed but not actually baring myself. I snap a few shots and then toss on my robe.
After I email myself the photos, I set to work, scrolling through the photos, deciding which to delete and which to submit. “Whoa!” I breathe out, shocked when one of the nude ones appears on my screen. I don’t just look good, I look…amazing. Confident and sexy. Empowered.
I’m lying prone on the bed, with my right leg extended over the footboard and the left pulled up and bent at the knee so that my foot rests on my right leg. My back is delicately arched, emphasizing the swell of my ass and the dip in my waist. The entire side of my left breast—nip and all—is exposed, along with the swirling, colorful art that decorates my body. My left arm is propping me up and my right hand is tangled in my hair as I smirk at the camera with my chin tipped up defiantly. The light is hitting me just right; I look like a goddamn queen, fearless and ready to conquer.
