Page 6 of Audiophile

She forces a smile that warns I’ll be the subject of a group chat before she even gets in the car. “See you for Sunday dinner, then.”

She believes I’m thirty-three and heartbroken, slinking back to my den to lick my wounds. She’s only half-right. I hate living here. I got out once, but I never published, never married. Though I lived in Los Angeles for nine years, I’m so far removed that it might’ve been a dream.

I’m doomed to a slow demise in Swift River, Oregon, single until I die, when I’ll be buried next to the rest of my family in the local cemetery.

I take my lunch break with a deli sandwich in the break room with my notebook. It’s a tangle of scribbles, with outlines for past, present, and future books. I note improvements for my current storyline in the margins while I eat. I’m restless, wishing for my laptop so I can add them into my chapters.

If I could spend all day in my imagination, with the comfort of a sound machine in my ears, I could tolerate living in Swift River. Maybe.

My phone pings, the sound of a rare, fresh email in my inbox. A spark zings through me, peeling away at the dull varnish of the world until a shinier one peeks through.

Daddy Knight Productions: New upload available. Be my good girl. Click here to listen.

Eagerly, I tuck in an earbud, volume on low, to preview what the scenario will be. Knight’s voice rumbles into my ear, warm and deep. The familiarity of it surrounds me as I close my eyes.

“Hey babe, how was your day?”Knight is a special performer. His recordings are intimate, like he’s talking directly to me, not a faceless listener. Each word is measured, every syllable a caress, and the audio quality is impeccable.“It was rough? I’m sorry to hear that. Wow, you are tense. Can I work these knots out for you?”

My tension shifts to build in other places, while anticipation warms my blood. Knight’s sweet and caring audios are always my favorite at this point in my cycle. Post-Period-Petra is a sucker forSweet-Knight. Different from Ovulating-Petra, who wants Daddy Knight to pin me down and make it rough.

“Hey, Petra?” a voice breaks in.

“Shit!” I swear, jumping out of my seat. I close out of the app with a wince. “I mean—sorry, Ray, you scared me.”

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” my manager says. His salt and pepper hair shines under the harsh lighting. “I hate to cut your lunch short, but we could use a hand.”

I hope Ray can’t see the guilt on my face. “No problem.”

I shove my headphones back into my bag—and the audio out of my head—and weave through the busy aisle to open a register. Tina, who I’ve known since kindergarten, pushes her way through the line. She unwraps a fruit roll up from an open box to give to her screaming toddler, but he chucks it to the ground and cries harder. Tina seems five seconds from ripping her hair out.

“I should’ve stopped at two,” she grumbles. She’ll deny it till kingdom come, as she is queen of the PTA, but I hear her. My heart squeezes in my chest, followed by a fierce, throbbing ache. She’s having a rough day, but some people would give anything to struggle through those moments.

After the initial rush, the space between customers stretches until I’m left with my own loathing thoughts and broken heart. I pull out my second notebook—a smaller one for notes, squiggles, and poems. It’s my version of a diary, and I scrawl toward the bottom:

Losing a limb might be easier to recover from. I say that because I haven’t lost a limb, and those who have must think otherwise. Is there a bigger word for this grief than brokenhearted?

I write it all out—the spiraling thoughts brought on by Tina’s frustrated phrase. The ink bears my burden, lessening the heaviness of the chains around my heart. I hold the last of the ache at bay by turning my focus back to the fictional kingdom and creatures of Galin. Dragons and pixies take over the store, leaping over carts, stealing candy, and battling in the ice cream aisle. Ahobbling old gnome with a wrinkled mushroom umbrella ambles down the conveyor belt, humming a tune while she walks.

But then a guy smashes her with his basket, and I blink back into this world in shock. I stuff down my gasp, forcing a customer service smile instead. “Find everything you were looking for?”

He gives me a halfhearted smile of his own. He didn’twantto hurt my gnome, so I don’t hold it against him. “Do you carry eel sauce?” His golden eyes hold the heat of Santa Monica pier on a summer day. They complement his toffee-brown hair, and a fine layer of stubble highlights his strong chin and the tall bridge of his nose. But his eyes are somber, and the rough shadows underneath them hint at a lack of sleep—the way mine do.

“No. I’d try Pear Life on Fourth Street. It’s a small Asian market, but it’s your best bet.”

“Thanks.” He lets out a short, deep chuckle. “Pear Life.”

“What?” I ask, distracted by the way his husky voice settles deliciously in my ears.

“You know, Pear Life, like Fairlife milk?” He’s not flirting when he half-smiles and his faraway eyes find mine, but my stomach flutters anyway. His shadows fade as he focuses on me, and a tingling sensation spreads over my skin. Like stretching my legs after being cramped in the same position for a long time.

Like I’m coming alive.

“I’m not from Oregon,” he continues, “but I’m assuming it’s a national brand.”

Maybe it’s because I was interrupted at lunch and my brain can’t wait for the next Daddy Knight scene, but his attention is intoxicating. His voice is sex personified. It melts across my skin like the honey of his eyes—sweet, warm, and soothing. All of my recent orgasms were simultaneous with a voice like his, whispering,“Come for me.”

My nipples tighten under my shirt at the idea of this attractive man murmuring those words. I slap a hand over my mouth, too emphatically in my panic, and his face slowly changes. His eyes brighten and crinkle at the edges.

“Are you okay?” The corner of his mouth quirks up, revealing a dimple that weakens my knees.

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