Page 3 of Insatiable Hunger

And I’m all over the place. Some days, like today, I’ll do it first thing in the morning before I start my day. Other times, I’ll crank out a session at two in the morning before bed after I’ve come home from a night of working at a club. My schedule is never consistent, and usually always chaotic. It’s the Scorpio in me. If I ever make plans and manage to actually stick to them, I’ll nine times out of ten be late, so I’ve learned to go with the flow rather than plan my days.

It’s why traditional jobs will probably never work for me.

By the time I finish the ninety-minute class, the sun is higher and hotter in the sky, the air thicker, with sweat beading across my skin as my clothes stick to me. Peeling my shorts off, I step out of them before reaching behind me and pulling my tank over my head. Left in only a pair of tight white Calvins, I waste no time diving into the clear blue pool. The feeling of being submerged in the cool water is refreshing as I swim to the surface.

I swim from one end to the other a handful of times before I finally get out. Realizing I didn’t bring a towel out here with me, I sit on one of the lawn chairs in front of the table and scroll through social media until the sun has dried me off enough to where I won’t be dripping when I go through the house. Rolling up my mat, I hold it under one arm, then grab my clothes and my laptop in the other, heading back inside. I’m meeting my cousin, Katie, for lunch in a few hours and I’ll need a shower before then.

As I’m approaching the door, something pulls my attention, my eyes darting up to the window on the second floor. A tingling warmth floods my body, heart galloping in my chest as my gaze connects with his for a split second, a grin sliding onto my face as I enter the cool, air-conditioned home. I wonder how long he was watching me. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out their bedroom overlooks the backyard, but it’s never crossed my mind, since up until today, he’s been gone.

Interesting.

Chapter Two

Elias Carnell

“Let’s get some margs.”

Katie and I just sat down at one of the best Mexican restaurants in town. They have dollar margaritas daily. I’m not fully convinced they aren’t overly watered down and made in huge batches in the back, bucket style, but a dollar can’t be beat.

“E, it’s like noon,” Katie replies with a laugh.

“And? They’re good. And a dollar. Plus, you know, like Jimmy Buffett said, it’s five o’clock somewhere.” I flash her a wide smile, which elicits another chuckle.

“Okay, fine, weirdo. Margaritas it is.”

Katie and I are only a few years apart—her older than me—but we’ve always been close. Our moms are not only sisters, but also best friends, so we spent a lot of time together growing up. We both left Savannah to go to college—me at Duke, her at Washington State University—but like most people in this town, we managed to find our way back here, whether we wanted to or not.

“Zeke’s home now, right?” Katie questions as she reads over the menu, even though we both know we’re going to order the same thing we do every single time we come here.

“Unfortunately,” I grumble.

Her eyes raise above the menu to pin me with alookbefore she laughs. Katie knows I don’t like Zeke, but she doesn’t knowwhy. Despite how close we are, how exactly was I supposed to tell her that the man my mother married the summer before my junior year of college was the same man I let fuck me four months prior while I was rolling on ecstasy at a party I was working?

I don’t care how many dollar margaritas we consume, that just isn’t lunchtime gossip.

Besides the whole fucked-up familial aspect of the entire story, I also could get in a lot of trouble talking about that night. The Lavender Party is an elite event. Everyone—guests, dancers, employees alike—must sign NDAs. If I told Katie and it somehow got back to Zeke, he could quite literally sue my ass. People go to these parties for the anonymity they provide.

“I think I’m going to get the fajitas,” she blurts out, pulling me from my internal trip down memory lane.

It’s my turn to chuckle. “Of course, you are. It’s what you get every time.”

“What are you getting?”

“What I always get,” I deadpan. “The enchiladas.”

The server comes, dropping off our drinks and taking our orders. Katie got the regular margarita—boring—and I got the strawberry. I take a long sip… yup, definitely watered down, but still fucking tasty.

“So, what’s new with you, E?”

“I got invited to work another party next weekend. It’s on Tybee Island.”

“What type of party?”

“I don’t know too many of the details yet, but it’s at some huge beach house. Probably lots of rich pricks drinking expensive liquor and snorting fine white powder up their noses while they watch us dance in cages or on their laps. There will probably be sex too.”

Katie’s eyes bulge out of her head. She’s heard dozens of my stories over the years, so it’s always funny when she looks shocked when I spit something like this out. I don’t think Katie is a prude or a“good girl”by any means—quite the opposite, actually—but lavish parties, strippers, and getting naked for the internet still seem to make her speechless. Which is fair.

Sex work is still very much taboo. It’s got a huge stigma around it and the profession as a whole is very hush-hush. As the years go on, I definitely think it’s gotten better. It isn’t as much of a dirty little secret as it used to be, but it’s still nowhere near where it should be as far as acceptance goes. The way I see it, if you’re of age and of full consent, it shouldn’t matter what you do with your body, for money or not.

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