Page 10 of Dirty Damage

I push myself until my lungs protest and my shoulders ache.

With every kick and flip, the stress of the day gradually loosens its grip on my chest. By lap fifteen, I’m floating on my back, watching palm fronds sway against the darkening sky.

But the universe hates letting me relax for more than five consecutive minutes.

My phone, perched on my pool towel, lights up with a notification. Then another. And another.

I climb out, water streaming down my legs, and reach for it with a sense of dread.

Please be Mara with some ridiculous meme. Please be Sydney checking in. Please be a spam call about my car’s extended warranty and an exciting opportunity to renew it.

It’s none of those things.

Hey beautiful. Been thinking about u.

saw those pictures. u still got it. When u coming back to Vegas?

we should talk. i’ve changed.

Drew.

My stomach clenches like it’s trying to eat itself. I blocked his number after leaving Vegas two days ago—just like I blocked the number before that, and the one before that.

It doesn’t matter. He always finds me.

Another text pops up:I miss that body. Remember how good we were together?

“Good” is a stretch.

“Toxic” would be more accurate.

“Soul-destroying” if we’re being precise.

I type back angrily:Sydney showed you?

His reply is immediate:She didn’t have to. Paul’s phone syncs with hers. He showed all of us. You’re still fucking hot, Sutton.

My hands shake as I drop the phone onto my towel like it burned me.

Of course. Of-fucking-course Paul has access to Sydney’s phone.

And of course he’d share those photos with that idiot pack of hyenas he calls “friends.”

I wrap my arms around my body, suddenly feeling exposed despite being alone at the pool. Drew seeing those photos makes my skin crawl.

Two years of carefully constructed distance, erased with a few taps on a screen.

When we were together, Drew had been obsessed with my body—not in a way that made me feel cherished, but in a way that made me feel like property. Something to be displayed, profited from.

“We could make bank if you’d just loosen up,” he’d say, showing me profiles of girls making thousands on OnlyFans.

I grab my towel and phone and hurry back to my apartment, locking the door behind me. The texts keep coming:

i know you’re reading these.

don’t be a bitch.

I’ve got a new gig. Good money. You’d be impressed.

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