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Chapter one
Heyuup?
I always considered myself levelheaded, especially as I barreled towards my mid-thirties at increasing speed. I often found comfort in there being very few things left in this world that could send me into a tizzy.
Except for my ex-boyfriend.
The text message had arrived exactly at 12:01 AM—the one minute past the hour making it an official booty-call—and had the power to send me into a full body tailspin. It had become a bimonthly self-destructive ritual: Carter would text, always after midnight, asking the same question. Too lazy to even use proper English—Hey u up?
And I would always answer with a resounding yes! Then show up to his house in the middle of the night like some late-night call girl, wearing my best lingerie under my jacket. Then leaving before the crack of dawn so none of Carter’s neighbors I used to barbecue with when we were still dating could see how far I’ve fallen.
The degrading sex was never worth the shame, anyway. Carter would give up eating me out before I reached the precipice of an orgasm, always blaming his TMJ, and then proceeded to thrust inside me for two violent minutes before rolling over and immediately falling asleep.
I’d spend the next few weeks nursing my pride, silently vowing to myself that it would never happen again.Thatwas the last time. But when Carter would text again next month, I’d find myself crawling back, like his dick was more addictive than the newest street drug.
In my therapy session the other day, the realization that I had been ignoring finally clicked—no matter how often I slept with Carter, we were probably not getting back together. No matter how much work I put into improving myself—inside and out—it would never be enough. I had spent hours in the gym, alternating between spin and boxercise classes. I had attended enough “Women in Work” seminars that I had enough lanyards to hang myself with. I even cut my long, mousy brown hair into a face-framing bob to make my face look thinner.
The only reason I had started therapy in the first place was to figure out why I was so unlovable. But every positive step I took—all the time and money spent—was immediately undone by a single text message and one question with lazy grammar. Carter hung around in the back of my mind like some dark shadow. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was there, hanging out in my periphery.
But tonight, I was breaking the cycle. Tonight, I was answering with a resounding no!
The only problem? I was wine-drunk and very, very horny.
Thank the goddess, I had a plan. I may be lacking in several areas, but at least I was always prepared.
Time to take care of this. Can’t make bad decisions if I’m not horny,I thought, ignoring his message on my phone.I reached into my bedside table drawer, grabbing my vibrator—old faithful, I called him. The only man to never let me down. Still laying on my bed, I shimmied out of my pajama shorts and placed the head of the vibrator on the sweet spot between my legs. I closed my eyes, tipping my head back against my pillow.
Bzzt. Bzzzzt.The vibrator gave one long, mournful sigh before it died.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I hissed, shaking the vibrator and slamming the head against my flat palm like it was the side of a vending machine that had eaten my last dollar. I clicked the on-and-off button, but to no avail. Old faithful was dead. This was a fate I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
I yanked up my shorts and marched into my kitchen. Wrenching the junk drawer open, I quickly rifled through old restaurant menus, napkins, and scotch tape. But no batteries.
Why wouldn’t you buy a vibrator with a charging cable?
Because the one with the cord was cheaper,I shot back to that annoying voice in my mind.
With a frustrated sigh, I pulled the entire drawer off its hinges and dumped everything on the white tile. Still no batteries.
So much for being prepared . . .
I kicked the contents and walked away. I stopped halfway in the living room before turning back and picking up all the items before returning the drawer to its slot in the cabinet.
Don’t text Carter. Don’t text Carter,I chanted in my head as I returned to my bedroom and swiped open my phone. I searched for the closest convenience store. I had twenty minutes before they closed. That was enough time to pick up a pack of batteries and a good-job-for-ignoring-Carter snack if I hurried. I grabbed my trench coat to hide my pajamas and no bra look, the one I usually wore over my lingerie when I visited Carter and rushed out the door.
I power-walked down the hallway of my gated apartment complex. As I rounded the corner, I ran into a shrunken form, knocking over the tower of packages in her arms.
“Ms. Williams! I am so sorry!” I leaned down, frantically picking up the packages.
Ms. Williams smiled politely at me, waving a dismissive hand at my spot on the floor. Ms. Williams was fae, just like me and most of the residents in the complex, and her short, pointed ears stuck through her tightly curled white hair like two mountain peaks poking out of a cloud. “It’s quite alright, Skye. I should have been paying more attention.”
My knees popped uncomfortably as I tried to stand while balancing her packages. “These are pretty heavy. Let me help you carry them back to your place.”
“What are you doing up so late?” I asked the old woman as we walked down the hall to her room. There was already a bead of sweat running down my neck.Mental note to pick up some dumbbells next time I’m at the gym.
Ms. Williams pinched the soft underside of my arm. “I was about to ask you the same thing, dear. Meeting a gentleman?” She grinned at me.
Trying not to, actually.I forced a laugh. “Just running a late-night errand. So, what’s with all the packages? Do I need to hold an online shopping addiction intervention for the both of us?”
