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Rude as he was, he was right about my dress; it’s objectively dreadful. It wasn’t so bad with the belt that came with it initially, but I lost it. Or put it away. The second option is more likely than the first. I tend to avoid wearing anything tight.
My wardrobe ranges from practical to boring, with very few pretty things, partially because of my budget, but also because I don't much care. It's never more obvious than when I hang out with my new sparkly, glitzy, rich friends. But I could have made an effort. Maybe I should have. That's what people do for parties, right?
Next time, I'll wear one of my good dresses. I have a couple that won’t stand out as badly as the rest.
I tell myself it has nothing to do with Marius, and that’s mostly right. He’s the first to have had the balls to tell me straight to my face that my clothes weren’t appropriate, but I’m not going to change my ways to impress him. I’ll just wear something nicer next time because he was right.
This is why I don’t do parties. Does Violet realize the sort of effort I go to in order to please her? I can’t remember the last person who made me want to make half an effort. But she’s just sonice.
Then there’s her husband and their cousin-slash-friend, Rom. If it weren’t for them, I’d actually believe the male species was all rotten, rubbish, and to be avoided at all costs. But Rhys Voss loves Violet like men from old movies. He’s not afraid to show it, to shower her with affection, attention, presents, little words that make her blush. Watching them is so sweet it can get embarrassing. As for Roman, he’s just…wholesome. Lovely.
Unthreatening.
"Ugh," I say out loud, frustrated with myself.
I start the song all over again from the beginning.
I watched the video half a dozen times, eagerly staring at Specter's delicious body, but this time, I'm just listeningto the latest update: his rendition of “Stay With Me.” I love the original, but no man alive can be half as sexy as Specter.
I redirect my attention to the landscape. Thorn Falls is flanked by a network of hills, a third of which are owned, with stately houses built upon them, but there's a trail running behind them, leading down to a lake glistening in the early April sunshine.
To the south, there’s a fancy private club. Its grounds take up a good half of the lakeside and extend toward the hills, but there still are a few miles of hiking—more when taking different paths. I've loved exploring them.
Back when I lived in Lone Pine, hiking around the area—Mt. Whitney, Owens Lake, or New York Butte—was one of my only pastimes. Mostly because it was free. The only requirement was half-decent shoes. Mine are starting to fall apart, but I’m avoiding the expense.
I kept up the habit here in Thorn Falls. There might be more entertainment here, but I can’t afford most of it.
Hiking usually helps to clear my mind, but I can't get out of my own head this afternoon, too taken by the events of the pool party.
By the time I look at my surroundings, I frown, not recognizing the path. The land's not extensive, so I shouldn't be lost, but I don't think I've been to this corner yet. I must have taken a wrong turn.
I check my phone. I thankfully have a signal here—a bit weak, but I can check the map. I'm still in the hills, but in the south, close to the bridge leading to campus. I see the quickest path to heading back into town, and set out. I've been out for about two hours; with the way back, it'll be a three-hour walk overall. Experience has taught me my feet can't take much more in these worn shoes.I’ll get blisters if I’m not careful.
I suddenly reach the last line of trees, and the view of the landmark's clear as far as the eyes can see: green fields, a white stone beach, and beyond, a clear lake, so blue it rivals the splendor the sky.
I also note an imposing white building in the distance. I must have been heading south, and neared the private club. I wrinkle my nose; if I'm right, this is private property. The last thing I need is to get arrested for trespassing.
I want to double back, but I don't know how long it'll take me to get back if I do. At least a couple of hours if I don't get lost again.If I cut across, I'll reach the bridge leading to campus, and I can take a bus back from there.
I bite my lower lip, considering my options.
Fuck it. My boots were cheap, and are on their last leg. I keep walking. Who cares if I'm passing through a club's private land? At worst, I'll come across a couple of golfers.No one really gets into trouble for that kind of thing. If someone asks me what I’m doing here, I’ll tell them I’m lost and that’ll be the end of it.
I keep going, replaying my newest favorite song again.
The man's voice shouldn't even be possible; the lower notes he hits vibrate through my core, more stimulating than a tongue on a clit. Or so I imagine. No one's actually ever licked my clit. Men truly do need a map to reach it.
And they also need to want to please a woman. Most of the time, they don’t.
I've switched to one of the older tracks for variety, and am humming the song when I reach the woods again. According to my map, the road's just on the other side. I'll be home in half an hour. There's a spring to my step as I dart across.
Given the music blasting in my hears, I don't hear them. I don't get a single hint or warning until I walk into the clearing and see them.
Men and women, writhing, pounding, riding, sucking, dancing over cocks and tits and pussies right here in the woods, like a band of savages, or heathens blessing some dark forest gods.
My jaw falls.
It's dirty, wild,wrong, and yet I can't stop watching. I even lower my headphones down on my neck to hear it, immersing myself in their filth.
