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There are many stints where I make her perform. Many stints where she tries her best but fails.
The physical pain is a thrill. It’s strong, it’s uplifting and bonding for us both.
With each approved outburst – with each moan, with each painful cry – I hunger for it all the more.
19
WREN
The other night. Oh, my God. It was so intense. Mind, body, soul, just like Hunter said.
I can’t breathe. I can’t emotionally breathe. I need some distance, some time. Is this me? Is this really me? Who I am inside as a person?
All I know is I need to be free of Hunter for a while. Free of his monitoring, his looks, his physical hovering over me. I know I may be asking for his wrath, but I text him. I dare not call.
Hunter. Please don’t wait for me after class. I need some more time. Some distance. Please understand.
I click off his contact and put away my phone. It rings. I let it ring. It stops, then it rings again. I let it ring. Only this time, students in the quad are looking at me. I blush and smile and fish my cell from my back pocket and quit the call. I put the cell on mute.
Eventually, later that night, when I’m working my shift at the bookstore, the calls finally stop. I breathe easy and happily stack textbooks like I don’t have a care in the world.
The week goes by swimmingly. All I think about are my classes and my job. It’s so easy. I’m just another girl here at college, like the rest.
But by Friday afternoon, Gracie pulls me aside in the hall. She’s all smiles.
“Wren, will you come with Maddie and Cindy and me? Boyd from my French grammar class is having a Tiki bar theme party at his parent’s place. Guess his folks are gone for the weekend, and he’s going all out. He’s even bragging he’s using some of his student loan money for this party. Anyway, will you come? I think it’s going to be this year’s best.”
“Oh, Gracie, I’m not sure. I’ve had a full week. What with classes and work. I was planning a night in.”
“Right! All the more reason to come out and relax. Listen, we’re going over to the Costume Shoppe to rent grass skirts. All you need is a bikini and a skirt and maybe put flowers in your hair, and that’s it. Spiced rum and pineapple juice, here we come!”
I laugh in spite of myself. I can’t deny it. It does sound like fun.
“Okay, you convinced me. I’ll brave a grass skirt for tiki drinks!”
I drop my books in my room, and we girls high-tail it to the Costume Shoppe.
Later that night, we get to the house. It’s in a swanky part of Boston. The mansion is a huge Tudor design. Real money has been sunk into this place. Even the lawn is perfect, with not a weed in place. I’ve never seen a weed-free lawn except in TV commercials.
As I pad up the path in my bare feet, my grass skirt swishes.
How this Boyd guy got a student loan is beyond me, but rich people get everything they want, I guess.
For a second, that thought brings me back to Hunter. Just as quickly, I wipe him from my mind.Tonight is supposed to be fun, girl. No worries in the world. Remember.
Gracie grabs my hand, and all four of us run up to the expansive landing, all done up in patio lanterns and thatched grass accents. Tropical music wafts out from inside. All around me are people with sprayed-on tans, leis, flower crowns, grass skirts and bikini tops, all drinking and having a blast.
I chose a certain bikini I’ve always looked good in. It’s a flower design. The cut accentuates my shape. With the grass shirt as protection, I feel pretty good about myself. I grab a plastic glass and pour some pre-mixed rum punch. It smells delicious.
In the dining room, the grand table is full of tropical dishes. Roast ham and pineapple, sweet breads, pulled pork in Kahlua liqueur. All of it is mouth-watering. I take a plate and start my selection.
I’m intent on what I’m doing, so I don’t see who comes up to me. But I smell coconut oil and a blast of spiced rum breath. I look up. My eyes pop.
“Cash. What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? Boyd’s having the party of the year. Of course, I’m here. What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were with Hunter.”
I ignore the direct inference. “I’m going stag. I’m with the girls.” I point to the three in the living room all lined up, doing a hula dance to manly whoops and hollers.
