Page 10 of Taste of Addiction

Claire glances at something off screen. “Yuppers. So that brings me to my next topic. What are your biggest regrets in life? Here, I’ll start,” she says, holding up a hand to stop me before I even get a chance to speak. “Hair removal cream and trying to keep up with all things posh.”

I laugh. “Umm, why?”

“I burned my kitty.”

“You, ah, what?”

She points animatedly down to her crotch—again. “It’s fried. Like torched.”

“Holy shit, no.”

“Yeah, like chemical burned and now it’s waiting for the itchy regrowth. I hated myself in the moment. And I still hate myself now.”

“So, why did you even attempt this?”

“It all goes back to my sex video,” she says with a shrug. “My honeypot was going to get lost in the grass if I didn’t remove it. What’s the point of making a recording if it doesn’t show anything fun? Now everything looks sun scorched. And it ain’t pretty.”

“I can imagine.”

“Yup. So I have been avoiding the sex with Ethan and he thinks I am just on my rag—which is never really a deal breaker for him. But I have been sending him bloody images I find online to pass off as my own. You know, to defer hisappetiteuntil I at least heal.”

I shake my head at her in disbelief. “Of course. Makes perfect sense.”

“I hurt.”

“Maybe instead of looking up random pictures of vaginas online, you should search for scorched pussy remedies?”

“You always sound so logical. It’s kinda annoying.”

We end the call, and I curl up into bed with my romance novel. I snack on gummy worms and leftover champagne from the morning’s mimosas. My stomach rumbles with hunger but I just ignore it.

I do not have enough energy to care.

3

The sound of my vibrating phone lurches me upward from my sleep. My laptop teeters over my thighs, landing on the cushioned surface of my bed. I reach for my buzzing device, just missing the call—sheesh—and apparently six others. I play with the screen, searching through the options to see who keeps calling and find that Graham has that honor. I scroll through the list of texts he left, stemming from his worry of me not picking up. As I continue to read, the same buzzing persists from the incoming call. I hit the “accept” button and wait for the scolding.

“Tell me you’re all right,” his exasperated voice resonates through the line. “I’m about ten seconds away from giving my men the order to break your door down just to verify you’re alive.” I can almost see him pacing and raking his fingers through his disheveled hair—most likely driving everyone in his vicinity up the wall.

“What day is it?”

“Whatdayis it? Are you kidding me? What the hell, Angie! Have you lost all track of reality? It’s Sunday!”

“Wow. I must have fallen asleep,” I answer groggily. I try my best to sound competent to end his unnecessary worry. The days, however, are blurring together. I am starting to lose hope that he will ever let me leave here. What happens if he decides it isn’t safe after eleven days? Will I just be locked up in my tower forever, waiting for my prince? “I’m sorry you’re worried. Give me a second to wake up.”

“It is two o’clock in the afternoon!” he growls.

Ugh. “Why are you so angry? The last time I checked, rest and sleep were essential parts of a balanced lifestyle. And I didn’t get much last night…” Between the recurring migraine and a series of flipping nightmares, I don’t feel rejuvenated at all.

“What would you like me to get you for lunch?”

“I’m not hungry,” I whisper absentmindedly, trying to figure out how I completely missed it being Sunday or the afternoon. His snarl shakes me from my thoughts. “Okay, calm down,” I whisper, hearing his voice boom through my phone’s speaker. Apparently, I unknowingly said the one thing that could evoke such a strong reaction. I wait for the rant and he does not disappoint.

“You didn’t eat breakfast, lunch, or dinner yesterday. No, donotinterrupt me,” he warns, making me shut my mouth so he can continue his spiel. “You refuse to even look in the fully stocked fridge and pantry for an entire day. Nor do you place any requests with my men. When offered a meal, you decline. You slept until now and probably haven’t had anything to drink in over twelve hours.”

“Graham—”

“No. This is pissing me off, Angie. Do I need to hire you a personal cook? Force you to sit at a table in front of my men? Make you video chat with me during every meal?”

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