Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
I settle at the front desk with a mug of very average coffee and try not to think about what’s on my phone, hidden in that folder, a bomb ticking down to who knows what.
But it’s all I can think about.
Every time I see my reflection in the glass, I catch the ghost of the girl I was last night: the heavy makeup still faintly staining my lashline, the delicate golden curl of a tendril of hair, and mostly, the knowledge that what happened happened. It makes me feel naughty, like I’m glowing from the inside. It’s like there’s something burning under my skin, a fever that won’t go down.
I tie my hair up in a tight ponytail and tug a green apron over my T-shirt, hoping to hide any residual sluttiness from my own eyes. The phone on the counter buzzes twice: first a spam text, then a single, chatty message from Mom, who’s already on her way to Pilates. I ignore both.
Instead, I check the register and restock the sticky note pads for labeling cuttings and cut flowers. There’s comfort in the monotony, the mindless repetition of busywork. My hands find their rhythm, but my brain is a swarm: I keep replaying last night in little jump-cut snippets—the snick of the camera shutter, the burn of the dildo as it stretched my pussy open, the way my big breasts bobbled, lush and ivory. I wonder if I’d recognize myself if I saw those pictures again. I wonder if I should delete them, or send them to Trevor just to see what would happen. The thought makes my pussy squeeze tight on itself, and I almost knock over a jar of rooting powder.
The bell over the door rings, and I jump, but it’s just Angela, my manager, her hair in its usual tight chignon and her mouth already pursed in irritation.
“Morning, Kayleigh. You’re early.”
I force a smile, extra sunny. “Just wanted to make sure we had time to prep the order for the Simpson party. That’s today, right?”
She squints at her clipboard, then at me. “You’re right. They want twenty mini-succulent favors and a centerpiece with blue delphinium.” She walks past me, eyes scanning for mistakes. “Can you start the arrangements? I’ll get the till ready.”
“On it,” I say, and vanish into the back, grateful to be alone with the plants and the industrial sink.
Back here, the light is sickly and green, filtered through ancient plastic skylights. I strip off my apron, toss it onto a sack of mulch, and open the walk-in. The cold air wakes me up instantly. I pull out a bucket of flowers and start assembling, hands deft from muscle memory. As I pick stems and trim leaves, my mind wanders.
To Trevor.
Always Trevor.
I picture him getting the photos, opening the “Homework” folder, seeing my pussy spread wide for him, seeing my face flush with want. I imagine his expression—maybe cool and unreadable, maybe a slow, dawning grin. I imagine him closing his hand around his massive cock, stroking himself to the images of me, and the delight of it is so sharp I have to pause and catch my breath. But then, the daydream mutates, doubling back on itself: what if he sent the photos to someone else? What if he laughed about it with Cassie, showed her how pathetic I am, how desperate to be noticed?
I jam the flowers into the foam a little too hard, and a stem snaps in my fingers. Sap oozes onto my palm, sticky and cold. I wipe it on my jeans, fighting the urge to cry. I don’t even know what the hell is wrong with me anymore. I’m so emotional and it’s like riding a rollercoaster. I’m seriously getting whiplash.
Angela sticks her head in the back. “You okay?”
“Totally fine,” I chirp, a little too bright while cramming another stem into the arrangement. “Just daydreaming.”
She watches me for a beat too long. “Take a break when you’re done, okay? I’ll be out front if you need anything.”
I nod, grateful for the excuse to vanish again.
I finish the arrangements—lopsided, but nobody will notice—and duck into the tiny employee bathroom to splash cold water on my face. My hands shake, the tips of my fingers numb. In the mirror, I look so normal: ponytail, clear skin, no trace of the slutty girl from twelve hours ago. But I can still feel her, lurking just below the surface, waiting to show herself again.
My phone buzzes again, this time in my apron pocket.
I check the screen: STELLA, all caps, a dozen emojis in the preview. I swipe to answer.
“Are you alive?” Stella’s voice is a sugar bomb, high and effervescent. “Or are you just ghosting your best friend for the hell of it?”
I smile. Stella’s probably the craziest of my friends, but also one of the easiest to love. Plus, she’s had an insane life recently. Her dad is now engaged to our friend, Andie Crenshaw, and I know Stella’s happy for them. But still, it can’t be easy to know that your dad and one of your closest friends are fucking each other’s brains out.