Page 115 of Dirty Damage

The thought is terrifying. Theoutside worldis terrifying.

Oleg and I know how to exist together in his penthouse. Ever since I cooked him a dinner we never actually ate, we’ve found a rhythm. One where we’re both undressed within minutes of him walking through the door and food is something we consume out of necessity and, preferably, off of each other’s bodies while we satisfy a different kind of appetite.

We’re safe in this bubble—alone.

But what are we when we walk outside? When other people can see?

It probably doesn’t even matter. Oleg is always busy with work. He isn’t going to cancel the day’s plans to do a silly little brunch and pool party with me and Faye’s family. I’ll go alone and?—

OLEG:Pick you up in fifteen?

The message sends an electric current through my body that I refuse to acknowledge as hope.

I’ve gotten good at that lately: denial. Like when Oleg’s hands found my waist in the hallway last night, steadying me while he took me against the wall.

Or when his eyes followed me when I padded across the floor to his bathroom, only for him to follow me a second later and join me in the shower.

Both times, I told myself that I feel nothing.

That this is temporary.

That I don’t need it.

And I don’t. I don’t care if he comes or not. What does it matter to me?

SUTTON:You’re coming to Faye’s?

OLEG:I was invited.

I respond with a thumbs up because it’s all I can manage with my shaky hands.

I throw open my closet and tear through my oversized, neutral wardrobe. Everything I own makes me look like a preschool teacher having an existential crisis.

Then I find my denim cutoffs buried in the bottom of a drawer and a cropped beige sweater that hits just above my navel. I pull them on over the hot pink string bikini Sydney bought for me after our last trip to the beach. Apparently, my one-piece was “a crime against curves and camel toes everywhere.”

I swore I’d never wear it, but…

No more hiding.

Oleg texts that he’s downstairs, and I give him another thumbs up.

Cool. Casual. Like my heart isn’t doing jumping jacks in my chest.

Oleg is waiting in a gleaming red Porsche SUV. The window slides down, and he peers at me over designer sunglasses, looking like every bad choice I’ve ever wanted to make.

“Hey, you must be my Uber driver?” I quip, hoping my voice doesn’t betray how dry my mouth suddenly is.

He snorts, but I catch the way his eyes drag over my bare legs. “I might be. Unfortunately, I don’t take cash or card. You’ll have to find another way to pay me.”

He’s teasing, but I slide into the passenger seat, already clocking the depth of the seat, curious if we can make something happen on the way. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

Suddenly, his warm hand is on my knee, sliding along my thigh. “We’re going to have to when you show up wearing this. I only get to see this much skin after I dig through layers of fabric first.”

“You don’t like my sweats?” I feign shock, even as his hands on me threaten to short-circuit my brain.

“You deserve more than sweats, princess.” His voice drops an octave. “Although I understand where it’s coming from.”

“Enlighten me,” I say, forgetting about my seatbelt. “Where’s it coming from?”

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