Page 1 of Don't Run
WHAT’S YOUR FANTASY?
Haveyou ever fantasized about being chased through the woods by a masked man before being bent over and fucked until your legs give out?
I have.
Every hour of every day for the last two months, to be exact.
Thanks to the random invitation that showed up in my mailbox on a random August afternoon.
Well, I thought it wasrandom.
But a random invite wouldn’t have my first and last name printed on it…
Two months of research revealed that Midnight Social is a twenty-five and up sex club in the heart of Wildwood. Singles, couples and everyone in between can enter a lottery for membership each quarter.
For the modest price of thirty-five hundred dollars a month. Finding that out had made the invitation that much moretempting. I don’t have that kind of money to throw around, but someone who does put my name on an invitation. I could very well be walking into someone’s well laid trap, but my risk seeking behavior has always been a sore spot between me and my therapist.
And I’ve been doing good. I haven’t unblocked my ex Desmond since last Christmas. And honestly, that has to count for something. Ten months without the best—and most toxic—dick of my life.
Once I realized how gone I was off a man whose “roommate” was his mama, I had to put myself in timeout.
Listen, players fuck up.
I’d drank enough wine about it. Now it’s time to fuck somebody to make sure I still knowhow.
The last ten months had been productive. But boring as hell. I can’t count how many crossword puzzles I’ve completed or how many crafts I’ve helped my nephew do after work.
Everything feels too safe. Too stagnant. I need something more. And if more is waiting for me in a mask at a haunted house, so be it.
I need a break from the monotony. A night to lose myself in something and someone else before I come back in this office on Monday and stare at my computer screen for nine hours.
So, yeah, I’m going.
“Any plans for the weekend?”
I jump at the familiar voice, tucking the sleek invitation I’d been studying back into my purse.
“No-nope, no plans,” I stammer as I look up to see the senior accounts manager peering over my cubicle wall.
Journey McIntire.
It doesn’t make sense, but her honey brown skin manages to glow under the fluorescent office lights. There isn’t a hair out ofplace on her blunt bob, and her makeup looks just as flawless as it did when she sauntered in here at 7am.
Some people really are God’s favorite.
She clutches the leather strap of a bag that costs more than I make in six months then sends me a curious look.
“Me either.” She looks around with practiced nonchalance. “I invited Tahj out to a cocktail mixer, but he’s so cagey. All he said was that he already committed to something before he went back to his spreadsheets.”
Huffing out a gust of air, Journey’s full lips form a pout.
I duck my head to hide any hint of judgment in my expression.
Her fascination with Tahj Carter is the only flaw of hers I’ve ever been privy to. She’s proof that you can have everything and still crave something just out of reach.
Still fishing for info, her willowy frame angles deeper into my space as her brows rise on her forehead. “Did he tell you what he was getting up to?”
“No, I don’t have access to his personal calendar.”
