Page 5 of Good Girl
No wonder he wasn’t fucking me.
Humiliation has bile creeping up my throat, causing tears to burn the backs of my eyes. “I wanted to surprise you.” I laugh, waving a hand down my undressed form. “I guess you had a surprise for me too, huh?” This red set cost me a fortune. Money wasted that I can never get back.
He steps around the counter, his dick still at half-mast and shining from what I can only assume is lube. And he had the cheek to embarrass me about the lube my body produces naturally? “Poppy.” He says my name like he’s placating a pet.
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand to prevent him from coming any closer.
All this time, I thought I was the problem, but in reality, he would rather be fucking his cousin. Hismalecousin. “You’re gay,” I announce. A light bulb turns on in my brain, all the pieces connecting and I chuckle like a crazy person. He’s fucking gay.
“I’m not,” he retorts defensively, like I’ve insulted him. “It’s just something we do. I’m going to marry you.” He says this matter-of-factly, like I’ve come home and caught him baking cookies, not fucking his cousin.
My fists clench, recognizing all of the time I’ve wasted, thinking there was something wrong with me and sticking it out all the while. “You’re a cheater!” I snap.
Sighing, he shakes his head, his blonde hair falling over his forehead. I always loved when his hair did that, but now I want to take scissors to it. How blind have I been? “It’s not cheating, not really.”
He’s lost his fucking mind.
“I love you,” he gives me lost puppy dog eyes, his plea raspy. “We’re getting married, Pop.”
Eric’s shoulders fall, swapping the cushion for a blanket. “The hell we are,” I scoff. Belting my coat, I grab my keys and leave back the way I came.
“Pop.”
“Pop.”
“Poppy…”
THREE
Vance
Idon’t often resort to using high-end escorts, but no matter how desperate I am, there’s no way I’m fucking Miranda, so an escort will have to suffice. Miranda is in love with Tristan, and she thinks cozying up to me will get her closer to him. I’m not letting her use me, especially knowing he’ll reject her anyway. We like to share, but it must be a mutual thing, not one of us favored over the other. Feelings are a no go too. It complicates things when they fall for one or both of us.
No, Miranda is now blacklisted. Pulling out my phone, I delete her number before shoving it back in my pocket. Shifting on the barstool, I sweep my gaze around the room.
This hotel always has the best quality escorts loitering in the bar, waiting to be picked up by some overworked, rich bastard needing an escape for the night. After hearing Tristan on the phone this morning, I thought he’d want to come blow off some steam with me. He’s always getting himself worked up, turning into a ticking time bomb that’ll go off at any moment.
This time of year is even worse as he closes himself off, which I hate. Christmas is everywhere. There’s no escaping it where we live. Next year, we should go find an excluded cabin somewhere—disappear until the new year.
Tristan has always hated the holidays. He grew up in foster homes after his dad fell asleep on Christmas Eve with a cigarette alight. The asshole burned down the house, killing himself and Tristan’s mother, who was sleeping on the couch. Tristan only survived because he’d been locked out of the house as a punishment. He’s never told me why.
My hand clenches around my empty glass, turning my knuckles white. I hate thinking about his life before he finally made it to college on a scholarship. That’s where we met, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. There’s something enchanting about Tristan, a determination and drive that’s rarely found in someone who had his start in life. He was damaged by a lot of assholes, and so many authorities failed him before he got himself free.
I admired him then and still do now. We are a paradox, Tristan and I. We had completely different upbringings, yet I’ve never met another person more like me than him. I was raised in a privileged household where my parents meticulously planned my life, believing they had a clear vision of what was best for me. From an early age, everything was calculated—a prestigious high school, college, career, and a wife to boot. I met all of their goals except the wife, which I’d probably would have by now if I hadn’t met Tristan.
Growing up under my family’s expectations and control left me with a profound yearning to seek it in other areas of my life. My need for control grew from a desire to a way of life that shaped my identity and my relationship with Tristan. “Would you like another, sir?” I nod in confirmation for the bartender to pour the whiskey.
Straightening my spine, I bring my glass to my lips, the amber liquid sears my esophagus. I glance around my surroundings, bypassing the woman at the end of the bar whohas been eye fucking me since I sat down. Too bad for her there’s someone else who has piqued my interest.
I run my gaze up thesomeone’sprofile. She’s sitting at the bar, prodding at a cherry in her glass while repeatedly shaking her head and laughing under her breath like something comes to mind that she can’t quite believe. The black coat she wears has slipped a little from her thigh, showcasing a bare expanse of toned, creamy skin, and damn, do I want a taste of that.
Escorts in this hotel are always of a higher caliber, but she is next level. And if I don’t move quickly, someone else will snatch her up for the night. I bet she tastes like candy. Women like her always do, and like candy, if you indulge in them too long, they eventually rot your teeth. One night, that’s all I’ll take, and I’ll make it one she won’t forget for a while.
Pulling my spare room key card from my pocket, I walk over to her and slide it across the bar. Bright green eyes expand, beaming up at me like I’ve just given her the sun. “Really?” she asks, and I frown, unsure if she’s serious.
Does she think I can’t afford her?
Maybe it’s because I don’t look like her usual clients. This place is full of old, bald, fat businessmen. I’m not one to rub my own ego but I’m a good-looking man who works out and takes care of himself. I don’t need to use hookers—I can go to any club and walk out with a woman—but it’s easier to fuck a professional… There’s no mistaking what we’re doing, it’s a transaction, and I know it’s going to be a good fuck. Most of the time anyway.
