Page 2 of Aim Assist

The dog was a much better choice than hooking up with Paul Manslut Smitherton or whatever the fuck his name was. It was something stupid.

Smithington?

Fuck. I dated the guy for three months and can't remember his real name. Only his stupid username—PaulWickOSOK.

He thought he was so cool. "Paul Wick, One Shot, One Kill". He didn't even have the skills to back up his ego.

All muscles. No brain. No skill.

I should have known from his K/D that we wouldn't be a good match. (That's short for kill to death ratio, for you degenerates who have yet to pick up a controller and join the wild side.) Paul's was so close to zero that it may as well have been x on the Cartesian plane.

It only makes things worse when I admit the sex was subpar. The man couldn't find a clit if it had a flashing neon sign.

All that buildup! For 3 months! For what? A roll between the sheets that was more like an unwanted workout than a sexy explosion of fireworks and fantasy.

Look, I'm not terrible. If I like the guy, I can handle bad sex. I've done it before. I'll do it again.

But not when the guy's bad at it and cheats on me with Sticky Stickerton, with her flat stomach and twiggy legs and no ass.

Yes, she's pretty. Of course she's pretty. She's gorgeous, and now I hate her.

Her boyfriend's shirts must hang off her like a fucking flag on a pole. Mine are usually a little tight, showing off a few too many rolls.

Look, it's math, okay? A man's XL is not that far off from a woman's XL. It's impossible. Maybe a 5XL would give me that cute, "Oooh, I'm wearing my boyfriend's shirt" look that people think of—but it isn't like anyone ever sees me in my home clothes.

Even my boyfriends have only ever seen the me that's ready to present to the world.

"…Amy!"

Shit, Sam's been talking the entire time, and I'd zoned right the fuck out of the conversation.

The shirt's all in strips now, though, so at least I was productive.

"Sorry, Sam. I got distracted. What were you saying?"

A long sigh whooshes through my earbud, riding the guilt train straight into my heart. "Okay, Max is right."

"Max?" The fuck is my brother suddenly doing in our conversation?

"Amy. What is going on? You weren't even that into him, and you're acting like a complete nut job."

"Excuse me. I'm capable of feeling hurt when I get cheated on, you know." There's way too much to unpack behind her words, so I do something I'm great at—I deflect.

Deflect. Deny. Change the subject. Sweep it under a rug.

I'm the queen of it all. Feelings are too much work for me.

There's a deep voice in the background, talking to Sam, and jealousy rears its ugly little head. We've been best friends for fifteen years.

It's been a year since she started dating Asher, and nine months since he proposed. Wedding planning was postponed when the pregnancy test popped a positive. Now, they have a cute little bundle of joy that keeps her up all night. Two entire humans that keep her away from me.

I can't even see her at work, because she's on maternity leave.

Maternity leave. We aren't old enough to have kids.

Wait—I can feel you flipping back through book one to double check. Yes, we are legal age.

But motherhood is… big.

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