Page 14 of A Photo Finish
Pretty_in_Purple:Oh, yeah?
I see the dots pulsing on the screen, showing that they’re typing. My knee jiggles rapidly, tapping into the wooden bottom of my too-small table. Is this person writing me a novel?
Golddigger85:I’m looking for someone I can pay to send me exclusive photos (like the one you posted) or do live videos with. I’ll send you $2,000 USD every two weeks and we’ll talk 2-3 times a week for 20-30 minutes. I’ll give you directions, and you follow them, within reason, of course. But I stay completely anonymous. Take your time to think about it. No pressure. Your photo is lovely.
I rear back. Daaammnnn. What the hell? What a bizarre and clinical proposition. As good as an extra four thousand dollars a month sounds, there’s no way I would do this. It’s not that I consider myself above it, it’s more that the whole thing completely defeats my goal of not living under another person’s thumb. I don’t want to follow another person’s directions. Even as I try to do the conversion to Canadian dollars in my head.
Pretty_in_Purple:Why?
My cheeks heat. I should just say no. But now I’m intrigued. I have questions.
Golddigger85:Why what?
Pretty_in_Purple:I don’t know. Why me? Why do this? What’s the point?
Golddigger85:Do you always ask so many questions?
Okay. Sore spot. Maybe I wouldn’t like being interrogated about my sexual preferences either.
Pretty_in_Purple:Probably. I’m not going to do it. I’m just curious.
Golddigger85:Why did you post your photo if it makes you nervous?
I think about walking away right now. I don’t owe this guy an explanation. But being forward and direct with someone I don’t know from Adam just feels easier.
Pretty_in_Purple:Because I wanted to feel nervous. It’s totally out of character for me, and quite frankly, I’ve been living in a bubble. This seemed like a good way to pop it.
Golddigger85:In that case, I do things this way because I’m quite fond of my bubble. Of my private identity. I work a lot. I don’t have time to date. I like things done a certain way, and this ensures that. It’s worked well for me in the past. I chose you because I liked the picture. You look natural. Real. That’s what I like.
I feel my cheeks pink a bit at the compliment. The man may be a total stranger, but his words still land in a way that makes me feel soft and gooey.It’s been too long since you last had sex, Vi.
Pretty_in_Purple:Well, thank you for considering me?
Golddigger85:Are you going to think about it?
Pretty_in_Purple:Probably not.
He doesn’t respond after that.
* * *
I wantto open my eyes. But they feel so heavy that it’s borderline not worth it. I try to pry them open; I really do. But they’re just so. Damn. Heavy. I give up, sigh, and roll over.
Pain lances through my body. From my toes all the way to the tops of my ears. I’m like one big ball of pain. My eyes shoot open easily now as I gasp, “Ah! Shit!” And opt to stay exactly where I am, flat on my back.
I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on breathing through my nose. If I don’t move at all, nothing hurts. The perfect solution. Except, with my eyes closed, images flash through my mind. Patrick Cassel. The mud. DD.Oh god, DD.
The stream of consciousness won’t stop. We went down. My leg. The hospital. The drive back to the . . . My eyes snap open, and I look around the unfamiliar room. “Mothereffer.”
Cole Harding.
I groan and pull the covers up over my face as I sift through my hazy memories, dying a little inside when I get to the one where I openly commented on his biceps. How am I going to face him afterthat? We were doing so well at pretending the other doesn’t exist. It was the perfect solution. That strategy has been an absolute success for a year now. I had hoped we could just continue it, even though he was going to be living out here. That was my plan. I like having a plan.
But now it’s trash. Because I’m sleeping in his house, and my season is down the toilet.
I’m pretty much living my nightmare.
I shake my head at my misfortune and click my tongue against the top of my mouth, trying to get some saliva happening in place of the dry, cottony feeling. I need a drink, and I need to brush my teeth. Looking over at my bedside table, I see a full glass of water. I want it so badly that I decide it’s worth moving. Even though I feel like one huge bruise, I shift myself over and up to lean against the headboard. It almost takes my breath away, the weight of the pain pressing in on me. It’s everywhere, and it throbs.
