Page 64 of Catfish

“You want us to take turns?” Billy rasps in my ear, licking my lobe while his hand lands on my ass.

I grip the back of his head in a silent endorsement, so he doesn't feel left out.

“Damn,” Dexter mutters against my lips when my hand brushes his hardness that he has yet too free.

“Billy,” I croon, lacing my fingers in his thick hair. “Get on your knees.”

It’ll give you something else to do so you shut the fuck up.

The pads of his fingers abrade down my hips, taking my jeans down with him as he goes to his haunches.

Men like Billy and Dexter, they’re the constant, the kind of men that’ll never change.

But with their perpetual tendencies, the monster inside me grows more confident and self-loathing in the mirror.

The monster I need to survive because I don’t know how to without her.

Pivoting on my feet, Billy is patiently waiting on his knees as I prop one of my legs on his shoulders. “I don’t need to tell you what to do, right?”

“No, ma’am,” he returns, brushing one of his fingers along the slit of my panties.

Dexter tightens his hold around my hips, probably afraid I’m a dream.

I’m not one.

I’m the bitch you forget when you found “the one”.

? Mr. Brightside — The Killers ?

"If you'd like to schedule an interview, please call our office," Emmy shouts as we exit Wildwood Middle School and down the steps to my waiting tinted out Suburban.

I wave at the reporters while flashes from cameras make spots of colors appear in my vision. Em keeps her small hand cupped around my elbow, keeping me moving—like I’m going to stop—as we climb inside the SUV.

Settled in, I look out the window to the surrounding crowd of photographers still snapping away.

"Holy shit," Em alludes as she sits next to me. "I expected a lot of people, but that was insane.”

I brush off the dry blue paint on my palms with the pad of my thumb, remembering the little blonde girl with pigtails who didn’t speak much the whole time I was there. While the other kids jumped up and down like I was a king, she sat still, chin in her chest, hair falling in her face.

Her favorite color was blue, she wrote it on her “All About Me” paper we did with the kids. Blue like Reagan’s dress that went perfectly with her gray rimmed violet eyes.

I can’t help but think about it.

How fucking abruptly I cut her off because it was stupidly getting too deep—too much.

I can’t have my dick floating around the internet if something bad happens between us. If she’s that kind of woman that trolls the internet because she hates men and has a vendetta to bring them to their knees in embarrassment.

So, I freaked out.

I fucking couldn’t do this with her anymore.

She’s reckless, rightfully so, because she can be. I’m bound by my name and status.

If I was anyone else, my dick would be something she’d have the pleasure of seeing. She could make it her fucking screensaver for all I gave a shit. But being Wade Lockwood, the governor of Connecticut, meant boundaries.

And she was something I couldn’t cross.

No matter how many times I told myself that I could keep this going. That she was someone that could make me forget.

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