Page 112 of Gilded Fake

“Not far enough.”

“How far are we talking here?” he asks, turning onto the ramp to the highway. The sky glows a soupy, hazy orange to the west as it begins its nightly descent.

“How much time you got?” I ask.

“I got all the time in the world, sweetheart,” he says with a lazy grin, shifting before laying his hand on my knee.

“You finally found a reason that’s not cash,” I say lightly. “I’ve got nothing tying me to Faulkner but you. I’ve always wanted to just get in the car and drive until the road ends.”

“That’s a long drive,” he says, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.

“You said you had nothing but time.”

“True,” he says, tapping the steering wheel while he stares out the windshield, lost in thought. “And when we reach the end, do we come back?”

“If we want,” I say. “I think we get to choose our future now. Together or separate.”

“You’re my future, Lo,” he says. “I told you, I’ll always choose you.”

“And I choose you,” I say. “Every single day. But if someday we decide differently…”

“Then we have that choice,” he says, nodding.

I smile to myself, my heart soaring at the thought of so much freedom at my fingertips. At last. I treasure it too much to promise it away just yet. Maybe someday, we’ll choose forever. But right now, we choose today, and right now, that’s even better. Being together is a choice we get to make every day. There are no promises, no rings to bind us, no outside forces pulling the strings. The freedom to make a different choice keeps it exciting. Anything is possible.

“There is one stop I’d like to make before we take off for the edge of the world,” I say.

“Let me guess,” he says. “This is your way of conning me into letting you drive?”

“Can you blame me?” I ask. “It’s been a year since I was behind the wheel.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “Though you might have to relinquish control every few hours. I don’t need to be behind the wheel all the time, but this baby drives like a daydream.”

“I know,” I say smugly.

He glances at me again, his hand sliding a few inches up my thigh. “Okay, so one stop before we drive off into the sunset. Let’s make it somewhere fun.”

“By fun, do you mean pulling off at the seediest motel you can find and making me beg to touch you like you’re a god and I’m some pathetic, dick-whipped nympho?”

“Obviously,” he says, his grin widening. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you swallow—after you crawl on the dirty carpet until your knees turn black and beg me to fuck you until you scream so loud they think there’s a murder going on.”

“God, why does that make me so wet?” I say, squirming in my seat. “Shouldn’t therapy have cured me of that?”

“Unless your therapist is bending you over his desk and fucking it out of you, I don’t think it works that way.”

“Unfortunately, my shrink is female, and I’m not attracted to women,” I say. “Otherwise I might have asked for that treatment by now. It’s been six months.”

Unlike the jail, Cedar Crest allows anyone to come on visiting days, not just family. Colt’s been in almost every week, even when I was in no condition to visit. He also came back in for a couple weeks when he relapsed this spring, and even though we weren’t supposed to be out of our rooms, he snuck into my bed a few nights and reminded me what was waiting on the other side of my sentence.

“For me too,” he says. “Which is why I brought this as a special treat, just for the occasion.”

He reaches under the seat and pulls out a black leather collar with a leash already clipped into the ring. My pulse pounds in my throat and my clit at the same time, and I reach out and take it, laying it across my lap. I swallow hard before asking, “Have you used this with someone else?”

“Of course,” he says. “Now put it on.”

My face burns at the thought. “You’re going to make me wear a used sex toy?”

“I’m not making you do anything,” he says. “I’m allowing you the privilege.”

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