Page 13 of A Photo Finish
I lean in closer to listen, a little concerned with how hard these painkillers are hitting her. Another thing to worry about.Just what I need.
Shaking my head, I leave the room. How did I get roped into this? I should pay someone to run the new company and head back into the city. Fuck the board. I’m a thirty-six-year-old man who can barely take care of himself. I need a woman to take care of like I need a fucking hole in the head.
Back in the kitchen, my hand shoves at the tap, making water shoot out as I reach up to grab a glass from the cupboard above the sink. The water out here stinks. Vaughn swears it’s safe. Something about no added chemicals like in the city, but one of the first things I’m buying tomorrow—provided this water doesn’t kill me first—is a flat of bottled water.
Turning to walk back to the room, I see my phone light up on the counter. Missed calls from Vaughn and Billie litter the screen. Must have missed those while I was working out. Before this all went to shit. I stare at my phone so much all day for work that I like to turn it to silent in the evenings. Then no one bugs me.
Except now.
Apparently in Ruby Creek, if someone doesn’t answer their phone, it means you show up at their door.
I swipe my phone off the counter and flick through my notifications. Most recently, there’s a text message from Vaughn.
Vaughn
Billie is really worried about Violet. We can work something else out going forward. Just bear with me for tonight. And take good care of her.
I roll my eyes. You’d swear Violet was a child on her deathbed or something. Is this level of micromanaging normal for adults?
Cole
Tell Billie that Violet is a perfectly capable adult. I’m sure she’ll figure something out for herself when she’s awake and not high as a kite.
I’m not even going to dignify his implication about me taking care of her with a response. Does he think I’m not capable? I don’t know when Vaughn became so totally pussy-whipped, but it’s definitely new.
I toss my phone back down onto the counter, trying some of that deep-breathing shit Trixie is always going on about, and head back to the spare bedroom with the glass of water I poured for Violet.
I set it on the bedside table, letting my eyes trace over her sleeping form again. Soaking her in, warring internally over how I should feel about this. Abouther.
There’s a part of me that wants to crawl in beside her, to hold her and watch her all night. To run my fingers through her hair. Make sure she’s okay, to ease the tension in my gut and assure myself that she’s really alright. But the other part of me knows she wouldn’t want that. That it would be way over the line, especially considering how we ended things.
So I walk out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar, and sink to the floor against the opposite wall. “Only for a little while,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head as I settle in to keep watch.
Deep down I know that’s not true. I know I won’t be able to walk upstairs and leave her tonight. But I’ve been lying to myself and everyone else for years.
Why stop now?
6
Violet
Holy shit.This is a lot of messages. I scroll through them, blushing as I go, feeling glad I already promised myself I wouldn’t respond to anyone. I’m only here to look.
Hey, baby . . . Hey, honey . . . I’d like to suck on . . . Don’t be nervous . . . Jesus. Who knew there were so many pervs in the world? I can’t even read them all. It’s too . . . much.
I spent all day busting my butt at the ranch, trying to forget the fact I put a naked picture of myself, entitled “(25F) New and nervous,” on the internet. Since I’ve finished, I’ve come up to my little apartment, made myself some macaroni, and pretended my laptop doesn’t exist. I even watched an episode ofGilmore Girls—that I could barely focus on—before I finally caved and opened the browser.
This forum has tens of thousands of subscribers. How forty-seven of them found me and sent a message is beyond my comprehension. I wring my hands as I imagine what these men have been doing while they look at my picture. This was a bad idea. Very poorly thought out.
A notification for my forty-eighth message pings in the top right corner of my screen. And out of morbid curiosity, I click it.
Golddigger85:I have a proposition for you.
I nibble at my lip. This message isn’t like the other ones. What’s just one message? It wouldn’t be so bad, would it?
Plus, I’m too snoopy to walk away from an open-ended statement like that. What would the proposition be? I flex and release my fingers over the keyboard, itching to type back. If the person says something terrible, it’s not like I’m obligated to respond.
Ah, fuck it. I’m going for it.
