Page 5 of Game Changer

Standing under the steady stream of my shower, small pink vibrating bullet in hand, I close my eyes and picture #21. To be fair, he’s an easy target. A man who’s sexy and has a slight southern accent clearly makes me a little weak in the knees, because it gives off the illusion that one is a gentleman. And in my fantasy, #21 starts out as a gentleman but always ends up taking me in the shower or, on occasion, in the bathtub. He starts slow, but ends up wild and wanton, like a starved man, craving … why, me, of course.

I tease my nipple first as they are extremely sensitive, and unlike my ex, #21 loves my double Ds. Judge all you want, but no man I have gone on a date with since the breakup comes close to deserving my double Ds, let alone the rest of me.

This occasional release, it’s completely harmless and also reminds me that I can take care of business all by myself. And when I do take care of myself, there is no need to call for clean up on aisle me. It’s my release, my ritual, a way to ground myself and connect with my body to start the day out right, loving it the way it deserves to be loved, curves and all.

I close my eyes and let my mind wander, picturing #21. The night he told me that piece of shit ex shouldn’t be the last manI was with. He told me that if this was a different circumstance, and he was not trying to bring his family together, he would have fucked me so good that I wouldn’t even remember the damn fool who let a girl like me go. My face caught fire, and I remember the sound of a groan coming from him, and then a nervous chuckle and his admittance that it had been a while. And then he asked me if I would do him a favor. For a moment there, I had no idea what he was talking about, but I was pretty sure, since his daughter was laying between us, as we had just brought her favorite blankie that she had left when they were at Riley’s place, #21 certainly wasn’t going to ask me for a blow job. And boy, was I right. He didn’t ask for that. At all. He asked me to allow him to kiss me just once so that the last person whose lips were on mine was someone I knew could see how special I was.

Talk about foreplay. The man who says stuff like that to you, I should go to my knees for him without question. But right now, I lean back and let the water wash through my long blonde waves, rubbing the sweet little pink vibe across my aching nipples, imagining his mouth leaving my lips but only to travel down my jaw, my neck, to that place where your neck and shoulder connect that is so damn sensitive. I moan, picturing the crooked smile on his pouty lips, fully pleased with himself for making me feel the way I do right now.

My hand moves down between my legs and inhale sharply as my little vibe connects with my soft lips. I would love to stand here and bask in this feeling, this fantasy, but reality waits downstairs, and I have thirty minutes to be fully ready for my day.

The sound of the water and the buzzing of the bullet are the only noises in the room as I lift my foot to the little built-in ledge and slide my little friend between my legs, and that’s all it takes. Electrical currents pulse immediately, and I ride thewaves of ecstasy, lost in my own fantasy world, free from worry and stress, just existing in this moment.

As I come down from my high, I feel a sense of calm wash over me. My body feels alive and refreshed, my mind clear and focused. Yoga has nothing over starting my morning out like this. It is my own form of meditation, a way to release tension and find peace within myself.

Hair blown out, makeup perfectly in place, my favorite, long denim skirt that hugs my rear, paired with a ribbed, fitted long-sleeve cashmere sweater and, of course, my cute little kitten heels that are as much of an illusion as those chicken cutlet looking things some girls put in their bra. No one would ever guess how comfortable these things are. They’re perfection.

Once I get to the doorway to unlock the shop, I realize I gave my mom the key off my keychain and she was going to have copies made and bring it to me today. No big deal. All I have to do is walk around the front and unlock the door, which is not ideal with these shoes on, but I will survive.

Keys in hand, I walk around to the front and get a feeling of joy that I hope each customer also gets when they see this place. The exterior is a cheerful pale pink with crisp-white trim, the name “Sugar Rush” elegantly painted in flowing gold script above the wide display windows. Hanging from the awning, a sign shaped like a cupcake swings gently in the breeze, a wave inviting passersby to enter. It’s the kind of place that when you step in, it feels like you’re walking into a pastel daydream of happiness.

I unlock the door and do just that, immediately feeling real joy in what this place means to me, a reminder of how sweet lifeis when you surround yourself with sweet things. No, not just the treats and snacks, but the people you love and who love you, in a community where neighbors still help neighbors.

That sweetness, it does something to me, but so does the scent of sugar, vanilla, and baked pastries that hit me the moment I open the door. Add to that, the interior is bright and airy, with high ceilings and a glossy white floor that sparkles under the golden light of vintage chandeliers. Pale pink walls are adorned with whimsical, hand-painted art.

A gleaming white display counter runs along one side of the shop, its glass shelves brimming with cupcakes topped in swirls of buttercream, flaky pastries, and rows of vibrant, freeze-dried treats. Behind the counter, a white-tiled backsplash and open shelving show off jars of sprinkles and stacks of pastel-colored mixing bowls—functional yet charmingly decorative.

The other side of the shop is lined with built-in shelves, each showcasing rows of neatly bagged freeze-dried treats, like crunchy strawberries, tangy taffy, and even marshmallows that look like tiny pillows of joy. There’s a cozy seating area near the front window with small white tables and pink chairs, perfect for savoring a treat and a coffee while sunlight streams in through sheer white curtains and bar stools lining up along the countertop, where some prefer to sit and chat about their day.

Every corner of Sugar Rush is intentional, from the gold-accented menu board behind the counter to the little jars of fresh flowers on each table. It’s a place where the atmosphere is as sweet as the treats and customers leave with smiles.

After turning the sign toopen, I pause, my eyes wandering across the space, drinking in every detail. “Another day of sweetness,” I murmur to myself, a smile tugging at my lips.

My gaze drifts to the paintings that never fail to make me smile. Each brushstroke tells a story—of frosted cupcakeswith swirling tops, delicate macarons in pastel hues, and jars brimming with colorful candies.

I can’t help but chuckle, remembering the day we painted them. Maggie and Iz insisted on helping. It was a labor of love. We’d laughed for hours, our clothes speckled with pink paint, as we struggled to make cupcakes look real but not too real, and the realization that none of us would ever be a famous painter.

The memory warms me from within as I walk further into the shop, my footsteps echoing in the empty space.

“You know,” I say aloud, as if the shop itself can hear me, “you’re so much more than just a business.” My fingers trail along the edge of a display, and I close my eyes, overwhelmed with gratitude. “We’ve got another big day ahead of us,” I announce to the empty shop, my voice filled with determination and the joy I lacked at the gym. “Let’s make it a sweet one.”

“It’s all there,” Dad assures me. “You’ve checked it twice; Mom and I both checked it, too.”

“It’s the biggest order I’ve ever received, and everything is riding on?—”

“Give it to me.” Mom holds her hand out for my iPad, and I begrudgingly give it to her. “Sugar Rush is your baby, but you’re mine.”

“Ours,” Dad corrects.

“Hey,” my cousin AJ mumbles around a mouthful of freeze-dried Skittles—his favorites.

Mom smiles at him. “You were never a baby; you all but walked out at eleven pounds and?—”

He covers his ears, and around his mouthful of Skittles, manages to say, “La, la, la, la, la,” and then he nearly chokes.

“You were a C-section.” Mom chuckles as she pats his back as he bends over the garbage container, emptying his mouth so he doesn’t aspirate.

After dramatically spitting out the candy, he huffs, “How does that make it better?” He takes the bottle of water I offer him.

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