Page 100 of Finding Their Place

But he wasn’t interested in fucking me without watching me come undone beneath him—he flipped me onto my back.

Clasped tight against one another, he worked his way into my body, our gazes locked.

Wyatt didn’t fuck me.

He wrecked me with slow, grinding thrusts, crooning about what a good fucking boy I was.

I didn’t correct the term—no, I fucking soaked that shit up, wanting to rub all over him like a goddamn cat.

We stole heated kisses on the job site.

I sucked his dick on the way home from work twice that week, and he repaid the favor in the shower after washing every inch of my skin and lathering my hair with kneading fingertips.

His hard, thick thigh became my pillow, and I told him to pet me, same as I’d done with Haley.

Those were the times I missed her the most. The cuddling on the couch, the shared comfort and sense of belonging.

I spilled my all my guts to Wyatt. Told him about my borderline homophobic grandparents, how awful family gatherings were since I’d refused to hide in a closet. How I felt I didn’t belong anywhere, how I longed to find my place in life.

He shared his inner fears, the sense of floundering while trying to decide how to proceed with confronting his birth mom. River dragged her heels, and Wyatt refused to go alone.

I offered, and he brushed it off—but I didn’t take offense.

The man wasn’t ready for answers he might not want to hear.

And we talked about Haley.

A lot.

Every fucking day, every goddamn night she kept her silence.

The hurt of missing her hadn’t faded one fucking bit—Wyatt stated the same—but at least we had each other to draw comfort from. We enjoyed the fuck out of each other but agreed neither of us felt whole.

I feared we never would.

33

Haley

Within a matter of days after settling in my heart I could make it on my own, I drifted without course or direction.

Friday night, I lay in my bed, alone. No soft strands of hair beneath my fingers, no clacking of a lollipop in my ear. No sure arms hugged me from behind, keeping my heart firmly anchored in assurance I existed where I ought to.

Rock bottom had always been an imaginary place in my mind, one filled with agonizing pain and hopelessness.

And I’d learned it. Lived it.

But at least I’d managed to shower the stink of the previous couple of days while wallowing in my mind’s shit from my body.

Tears clogged my throat, and I struggled to fill my lungs—almost didn’t want to. My limbs weighed me down even though my chest felt hollow. Empty. Silence reigned in my ears, but thoughts flooded my mind, loud and persistent.

I’d applied for countless jobs, some way beyond my skills because why the fuck not, listing Lily as my top reference. The three applications I had hope in because of my management history didn’t gain me shit. I’d called as a follow up because squeaky wheels always got the grease, and when I stood up for myself, pushed to learn the why of not being chosen, I learned it was the final job listing on my resume that had killed my chances.

Gretchen didn’t have anything nice to say about me. I wasn’t surprised, but I’d kept my fingers crossed no one would call her.

Should have known better.

I wanted to stab the twat with a pitchfork. Rant and rave, scratch out her eyeballs.

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