Page 16 of Beneath the Hood

She sucks in a gasp, drawing my eyes to the way her cleavage rises with her breath. “You don’t?” she whispers.

I shake my head slowly, careful not to let my lips graze hers with the motion.

“What do you feel, then?”

“I—”

Laughter from the hallway cuts me off and I jump back, the sound dousing me in icy water. I run my hands through my hair, glancing down the hallway, seeing Karen meander toward the reception area.

Fuck.

I back up, pointing toward the photo still pulled up on her phone. “I’m not mad, but it doesn’t mean I like it.”

She scoffs. “Like I do? Please…”

“Then we should be more careful.”

“Fine.” She crosses her arms.

“Fine.” Amusement at her attitude warms my chest, and I copy her stance, stifling my smile.

Her eyes narrow. “I’m having a photo shoot at my house tonight. Do your babysitting duties extend to in-home activities?”

“They probably should.” I nod.

The truth is, I have no idea if Mr. Donahue’s request extends past her public appearances, but at this point, it doesn’t matter.

When I’m at home, I have time to think. Time tofeel.

I’ll take Blakely over the hurt any day.

9

Blakely

It isn’t healthy to read comments online, especially ones under articles that are filled with speculation. But for the first time in what feels like forever, I do. I justify the decision by convincing myself that I’m checking to see how it comes across. After all, I haven’t heard anything from my dad, so I assume he either hasn’t seen the photo, or it’s not actually as bad as it feels.

But I should know better than to look.

Who is that? He looks like a Greek god.

Not to be dramatic, but if this man doesn’t wife me up and father my children, I will die.

How’s a frigid bitch get a guy like that?

OMGGGG He’s fine af.

Her pussy must be gold. Have y’all seen her w/out photoshop? H-I-D-E-O-U-S. In it for the $$.

It’s the last one that makes me pause, the barbs slicing through my thick skin, and festering in my psyche. Setting my phone down, I head into the formal living room—the one that’s just been transformed into a set for the photo shoot—trying to ignore the way it suddenly feels like a thousand bugs are crawling under my skin.

Immediately, my eyes take in the scene. Sierra is standing to the side, hands on her hips, her messy blonde hair thrown up in a bun. A beige knitted sweater slouches off one shoulder and drapes on top of black leggings. She looks cozy, and envy hits my chest, jealous of how she’s able to throw on comfortable clothes and not worry about being seen in something off-brand.

The sun hasn’t set yet, but it’s close, pinks and purples grazing against the horizon, spreading their glow through the wall of windows and casting everything in a stunning hue of twilight.

It’s a calming aura, and if I were anyone else, maybe I’d enjoy the moment, and be thankful that my life is as blessed as it is. But instead of relaxing, my fists clench tight, fingernails pressing into my palm, threatening to cut through my skin with the pressure.

There’s a scent in the air. Baked dough and tomato sauce. Gooey cheese and peppers. My nostrils flare, letting the stench flow down to my empty stomach, hoping it will be enough to curb the craving.

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