Page 69 of Falling Off Script

I hit pause. Rewound. Played it again...

Oh.

Oh, that was not an outtake.

That was a confession. A series. A library of admissions with my name on them—moaned, muttered, and occasionally growled.

And dear God, they gotworse. In the best possible way.

By the fourth clip, I wasn’t smirking anymore. She described things with a kind of reluctant clarity that made it very hard to breathe. Very hard to focus. Very hard, period.

And it wasn’t just the sex. It wasthe creativity.

I’d helped guys navigate threesomes, dominance games, even the logistics of shower sex in apartments with no water pressure. But Emily Parrish? She dreamed up scenarios that needed a stunt coordinator. Unhinged. Artful. Borderline illegal in Utah. And somehow, I was both the villain and the reward.

It was diabolical. Erotic. I never would’ve guessed she had that in her.

And now? Well. Now it’s all I can think about.

The door creaks open.

I hit pause automatically.

Tyler pokes his head in like we’re roommates. “Yo. Dropping your coffee. Also—random, but I totally bet on you and the Zeta Slayer in the hookup pool. Two-to-one odds. Should’ve been higher.”

I blink. “Oh, right... a betting pool.”

“There’s aDiscord.Full fantasy league. Someone made a trailer.”

He grins. “Just saying—you seal the deal this week, I win eighty bucks. No pressure.”

He leaves.

I sit there.

Thirteen files. Over an hour of listening.

I should feel bad. I should close the folder. Email Jessie. Tell her she messed up. Maybe pretend I never opened them.

But I don’t.

I just scroll down to number 13.

The last one.

The timestamp says eleven minutes.

And in that moment, I am not thinking about PR. Or revenge. Or leverage.

I am thinking about her mouth.

And the fact that next time I see her, I won’t be thinking at all.

32. Emily

The knock comes at 8:12 p.m., which is already a crime. Too late for delivery, too early for an emergency, and exactly the kind of timing that makes you wonder if your life is about to get ruined.

I’m in sweatpants. Hair up, no bra, nearly horizontal. One AirPod in. Spotify’s humming something acoustic about personal growth. Basically: I’m defenseless.

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