Page 37 of Blackmail
I give my friend and fellow ho Troy the finger for his comment, but he only laughs and wiggles his eyebrows.
To be fair, I look like shit. While I managed a quick shower and I did drag some clean sweats and a shirt out of the laundry basket, I’m not precisely pulled together like I usually am. Not to mention, I’m still exhausted despite all the extra sleep I’ve gotten recently.
I land gracelessly in a metal and wood chair and take a moment to breathe. The last couple of days have turned me upside down, and right now, all I want is a juice and a breakfast scramble with extra crispy potatoes. Maybe then I’ll feel human again.
Though after I land in the chair, my aching ass and bruised back remind me it’ll take a lot more than potatoes to forget the way Sebastian owned the hell out of me. And the way I loved it.
To my left, two gorgeous ladies, Alexis and Eve, are talking about a concert they attended—a local-ish band called Wicked Crush. They’re in sweats and matching rhinestone-studded flip-flops. It’s a chilly morning for summer, but it’s Florida, so everyone still wears sandals. Without missing a beat, Alexis slides me a mimosa as soon as I sit down.
“It’s okay,” she assures me. “Just orange juice. I made sure.”
Because I may love the idea of mimosas, but I don’t love to drink. After leaving the farm, I experimented with an unfortunate number of substances. I wanted to take full advantage of my freedom. I wanted to try everything, and the high helped me hide from my family’s rejection and how afraid I was of the outside world.
It worked until the time Brennan had to call his doctor because I’d been stupid enough to mix Molly and muscle relaxers with who even knows how much tequila. I was sick for an entire day and a half after. It was enough to turn me off most of that shit, thank God.
“Bless you, my love.”
Alexis winks and goes back to her conversation.
“Hey, Simon, looking rough. What’d you get up to last night?” calls Adam from across the table.
I give him a roll of my eyes. “I was busy fucking your sister last night, so maybe leave me the fuck alone before I give you details.”
It’s a stupid response, because while some of the guys at this table aren’t gay, I am. Long before I was forced to run away from the farm, I knew I would be in trouble if I stayed. I’d have been expected to marry a nice girl from one of the other families in our community and have lots of babies to try and keep our dying way of life alive.
I never could think of it without my stomach tying itself up in knots.
Adam grins at me over the rim of his champagne glass. “That’s funny, because my sister is on her honeymoon in Rome right now, and her new husband is built like a professional football player, so good luck with that, man.”
He’s as full of shit as I am. Aside from an older brother he never speaks to, the closest thing Adam has to a sibling is Troy. Or maybe they’re more like a couple. None of us are sure.
“Yeah? Tell her I said congrats. Also, ask if she’s willing to loan out that hot husband of hers.” Not that I need another dick in my life right now, even if the guy was real. I sigh and slug my “mimosa,” signaling our waitress for another.
After last night, I’m aching in places I didn’t know I could ache. I desperately need a solid week off to recover. Despite that, I also can’t stop thinking about Sebastian, can’t stop replaying his hands and his mouth and his (shiver) teeth on me, and can’t stop my body’s reaction when I think about him slamming me against his door and spanking me like I was a Very Bad Boy, and I was his to discipline. I even let him tell me when to come, for fuck’s sake.
I’m used to getting treated like a piece of property. I rent myself out, after all. And usually, I hate it. Why the fuck didn’t I hate it with him?
Michael, who only does “boyfriend experience” escorting, is to my left, still casting me worried glances while he chats with Dean, the only one of us who’s been around longer than I have. Dean’s older than me, and he’s been an escort since he was nineteen. Single dad, which sounds rough as hell to me. Especially in a place like Belle Argo, where the wealth gap is more significant than Sebastian’s dick.
Now I’m thinking about him again. Fuck.
I check around the table. PJ is on the other side of Dean, but I don’t see Christian. PJ, however, seems to be checking his phone every ten seconds. “Everything okay with Christian?”
“Oh.” PJ seems startled by the question. “Y-yeah. That’s not… He was exhausted after everything, so I left him sacked out on the sofa.”
“Then who are you furiously texting?”
No answer comes my way, but I make a mental note to check in later with Christian. We should all be checking in with each other more often. Who knows what would have happened if PJ hadn’t been persistent?
Our waitress, LeeAnne, drops my usual order in front of me: breakfast scramble, nondairy butter, cherry jam, and sourdough toast. Extra crispy potatoes. It’s funny, but I feel more at home here than I ever did at my actual kitchen table growing up. LeeAnne is one of the reasons why. She’s got strong caretaker mom vibes, and she always seems to know what I need without asking. My actual mother was more of the cleave-to-your-husband sort.
Fuck. That. I refuse to cleave to anyone.
Seriously, though. This place. These people. I’m not sure where I’d be right now without everything in this room.
What about Sebastian? You were glued to him when you woke. And then there’s the part where you let him come inside?—
Shut the fuck up, inner asshole.
