Page 38 of Untamed

There’s a reason that one hundred percent of my friends are fellow influencers who share a mutual love of reading and bad boys.

In real life, I don’t make friends easily. I don’t trust anyone.

This apartment is a study in contradictions, a ridiculous blend of hope tangled with despair. The kind of place that clings to the smell of mildew no matter how hard I scrub or how many candles I burn. The walls are thin, the once-white paint now an uneven patchwork of peeling corners and smudges that won’t scrub out. At night, the soft glow of the fairy lights I hang disguises the cracks spidering across the ceiling.

I’ve thrown down thrifted rugs to cover the worst spots of the cheap laminate flooring, little splashes of color I hoped would lend a vintage edge but sort of scream “flea market finds.”

My bed is crammed into the far corner of the studio, tucked beneath a window that rattles in its frame every time the wind kicks up. The bedspread is soft and inviting, though, my onesplurge after a recent shoot—a pricy comforter I bought on sale, the bright crimson fabric a rebellion against the drab apartment.

I pinned a sweet little string of lights made of tiny romance book covers on the wall above it, one of my favorite little bonuses from a sponsored ad. I love the little gallery of escapism and reminder of a world that’s fully within my control.

Unlike this one.

Sigh.

Before I went to bed, my phone pings. My heart surges and I reach for the phone, only to realize… it’ s Shawn.

I close my eyes and will him to justgo away.I don’t want to deal with him, with the memories he dredges up and the way he makes me feel.

Shawn

I want to visit dad’s grave together.

Of freakingcoursehe’s tugging at my heartstrings. Just because he’s back in town, he wants to play nice. Wants to pretend that nothing ever happened, that I’ve forgiven him for what he did.

His dad wasn’t my father, but my mother’s husband. We buried him a decade ago, and I did love the guy. He was good to me—good to us.

Except for the day he moved his son into our home after his ex-wife gave up custody.

I toss the covers aside and head to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. It feels as if my phone has eyes on it, boring into mine.

Is he watching me?

Does he have cameras set up here, after all?

Why would he go through that much trouble forme?

I take the camera with me and prop it on the kitchen table, staring at it for a moment as if it’ll reach out and bite me.

My god, it’s a beauty.

I look away from it. It doesn’t belong in a place like this.

The kitchenette, if it can even be called that, sits on the other side of the room. A single-burner hot plate balances precariously on the edge of the tiny counter, and the mini fridge hums loudly, drowning out the faint murmurs of my neighbor’s all-day TV fest. I tried to dress it up with dried lavender and baby’s breath from a farmer’s market, but it didn’t really help.

I really hate this place.

I should pack up and move.

But here’s where I have my connections. I can get a gig in a matter of hours, and I’ve finally started making a name for myself, booking clients. now that the influencer gig is picking up, that’s less of a pressing need, though. I can, for once, be a bit more discriminating.

I have goals and aspirations, not the least of which is to sock away every penny I can so that I can move into a place of my own. Suffer for a bit, then buy my own place.

Wherever I want.

I look back at the camera. It rests on my kitchen table like a coiled snake—beautiful, dangerous, and impossible to ignore. Its black leather casing, weathered and soft, contrasts with the sharp glint of its brass accents. An antique. A collector’s dream.

A note, handwritten on textured paper, lies beside it: “Use it wisely.”

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