Page 20 of Sinful Blaze

Just… the thought of returning to mediocre limp fish flopping between my legs is enough to make me cry.

I think I’ve stared at that open text conversation every morning, afternoon, and evening since we parted ways.

I wake up, wonder if today’s the day I finally test the waters and send him a simple Hey, then remind myself the thousand reasons why that’s a terrible idea.

At night, I wonder if his sheets are as cold and empty as mine. Maybe he could come over to my new apartment and help me christen my new bed… and bathroom… and couch… and kitchen…

But men like him live entirely different existences from women like me. He’s probably making a new woman scream his name every night. Several at once, even. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has more of a harem situation than a little black book of conquests.

Now, I’m carrying the third thing he gave me that night.

And the fact that I’d sooner confess to my overbearing, hyper-controlling, narcissistic Medusa of a mother before I send the father of my unborn child a text should be evidence enough of how chickenshit I really, truly am.

“I’d rather not say.”

Mother’s brow pops back up. “‘You’d rather not say’? Or you don’t actually know?”

I hate how the jab lands. It shouldn’t affect me at all, but it does. “The fuck is your problem?” I hiss.

“Watch your language, young lady!” She glances around the room for the hundredth time just to make sure no one she knows is eavesdropping. “For your information, you’re my problem. You and your sister. I can’t…”

Oh. Oh, dear Lord.

She’s crying.

Mother melts her icy facade enough to collapse back in her chair like someone just bitchslapped the anger out of her body. Now, all that’s left is self-pity and a dramatic sense of injustice.

“I cannot believe how far our family has fallen!” Her voice pitches high but manages to stay quiet. “Your grandmother would roll in her grave if only she knew.”

Now is not the time to roll my eyes.

Now is not the time to roll my eyes.

Now is not the time to remind her that Grandma didn’t give two shits about anyone or anything if it didn’t involve Canasta.

I bite the inside of my cheek to suppress the smile I want so badly to show in fond memory of my grandmother. She really was a lovely woman. Kind, selfless, and a hell of a baker.

I have no idea how she managed to birth the witch now wailing across the table from me.

“I know I raised you girls better than this! Melanie, for damn sure—and how does she repay me for everything? Now, we can’t even show our faces at the country club and that would be bad enough, but… Daphne? Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Not even a little bit.

Melanie, my younger sister, is the lucky one. Which is hilarious to say, because she was dragged through the mud, chewed up, spit out, then rolled into social sushi when word spread that she had a serious—and seriously sexy—income as a webcam girl during college.

I’m not sure which was worse in my mother’s eyes: the fact that she wore skimpy lingerie for thousands of viewers to ogle, or that she made bank on said activity. I’m pretty sure that, if she had just done a few things and only had a few followers, the whole thing would have been swept under the rug.

But Mel never did stuff halfway. She was raking it in, living well, living free.

Until some asshole decided to expose her. To our parents, no less.

That’s the most messed-up part of the whole situation. No one really knows why the guy went out of his way to utterly ruin my family’s reputation. It didn’t matter that Melanie never actually slept with anyone, or that she’d left that hobby behind long before she wed, or that she was married now to a man who knew all along and didn’t care.

What mattered were the words people threw at her.

Slut.

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