Page 37 of A Photo Finish
“Hank?” Now I officially look like a psycho. The longest standing friend of our family brought her flowers, and I’m acting like a possessive tool about it.
“Mhmm,” is all she says. But I can hear the trace of humor in her voice. Like she sees my comment for exactly what it is.
My fingers flex on the steering wheel, and we fall into an awkward silence. Where conversation flowed pretty easily in the dingy little pub surrounded by the hum of local regulars in for their daily happy hour and the twangy music playing through the cheap speakers, it feels more strained in the quiet of my truck. Like there’s too much left unsaid between us. It’s too intimate. Too dark.
Too much.
I nod and retreat into the silence as we travel down the dark side roads back toward the ranch. When we pull up to the house, I shoot Violet a look which garners me an eye roll. But she doesn’t move to jump out of the tall truck on her own.
The minute my door slams, the brown horse whinnies loudly to me from her gate, looking like a drowned rat. A happy drowned rat with her ears all flicked forward.
I ignore it and jog around the front of the truck, yanking the passenger-side door open to get Violet out before I get totally drenched. The rain beats steadily across my shoulders as I look down at her in the dimly lit cab. Each drop feels like a pinprick on my skin as she looks up at me without turning her body; she hesitates. Like she doesn’t quite want to face me. Her blue eyes darken somehow in the low light—going almost indigo—and her hair looks more golden in its shimmer. I watch as her tongue darts out across the seam of her shapely lips.
We stand in limbo, her in the dry warmth of the truck, me out in the rain drinking her in like I’ve been stuck in the desert. Parched.
My body pulses in time with my heart as she spins herself toward me slowly, one hand on the handle and the other on the edge of the seat, lifting the cast gingerly. I run a hand over the top of her injured leg to hook my palm behind her knee and pull her closer. She shivers, like she’s cold, so I slide my eyes back up to her face. “Are you—”
She cuts me off this time. “Thank you again for tonight. I know you don’t like me. But I still had a good time with you.”
My chest fills with heavy air and self-loathing as I step in and feel my knees bump against the truck, my waist centered between her slender thighs. My fingers lock onto the back of her knee as I ask, “Why would you think I don’t like you?”
Violet looks over toward the horse, avoiding my eyes, stammering as she does. “I... I...” Her sigh is a harsh emptying of her lungs through that distracting, heart-shaped mouth. “Because I ghosted you? Because I’m in your house? Your life? I’m not stupid—I know I’m invading your space. I know you like your privacy. I’m an inconvenience. I can tell you don’t like me. And you know, really, that’s my issue. It’s not my problem if people don’t like me. Not really. But it bugs me, you know?”
I almost want to laugh at the absurdity of the statement. She thinks I don’t like her?If she only knewis what runs through my head as I lean in closer.
12
Violet
Pretty_in_Purple:Cats or dogs?
These arethe questions I’ve resorted to asking to keep Golddigger engaged. I can’t figure him out. Some days he seems talkative, and other days he’s quiet and withdrawn. On those days, I usually let him be and then wake up to a message from him the following morning.
But tonight, I’ve cracked a bottle of wine by myself, and I want someone to talk to. The ranch has been launched into turmoil, and they finally hired a new trainer. And she’s awesome. I tried to play it cool around her, but I’m pretty sure I just got all quiet and weird.
Either way, I’m excited. Because my days just got a lot less lonely.
My phone dings, and I snatch it up.
Golddigger85:Pussy.
My cheeks flare. Now and then, he throws out something super sexual. Something that makes me squeeze my thighs together and wish we were more than just avatars to each other. I wonder what his voice sounds like. What his mannerisms are. Does he have an accent? I wonder what color his eyes are. Does he do this with other girls every day too?
That last one makes my chest pinch uncomfortably.
I spend a lot of time imagining the details of Golddigger’s appearance, trying to piece him together with the few puzzle pieces he occasionally drops. Mostly, I imagine his muscles.
Every man I’ve been with has been lanky and boyish, but based on that one photo of him, that’s not the case here. I’ve had nice boyfriends. I’ve had nice sex.
But I’m tired of nice. What I really want is for someone to manhandle me. Cross that consuming type of lust off my bucket list.
Pretty_in_Purple:Huh. Never would have guessed. How many of those do you have on the go?
Golddigger85:One. I’m a solo pussy kind of man.
Pretty_in_Purple:Oh really? What’s her name?
Golddigger85:Not sure. All I know is that she looks good in purple.
