Lucy
I’m plunger-deep in Spider’s toilet clog from hell; what a way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Since leaving Bear Mountain yesterday, I’ve been questioning if last week with JP was real or some kinky sex dream cooked up by my messed-up, amnesia-tortured mind.
If it was just a dream, then I’m all for it. It beats the recurring one I had again last night with Buddy the dog.
That’s the end of that. Let’s be honest. It was a temporary escape from reality, like when I indulged in that Daredevil roleplay at the comic convention.
Because the cold, hard truth is I’m a 27-year-old introverted graphic designer who, in some insane twist of fate, wound up in bed with her billionaire boss.
Now, back under the cold, judgmental glare of my less-than-luxurious apartment, paranoia has dug its claws into me, flourishing in my insecurities.
What happens if word gets out that I had a fling with JP? I can’t handle that kind of scandal.
I want to tell the girls so badly, but can I trust Libby with something like this? She’s always begging for gossip about Wolfe and the Quinn brothers, and until last week I was a useless source on that. But now?
Now I know the size of his monster dick.
And I know if I told her that she couldn’t tell anyone, she would have the best intentions not to gossip, but it might slip to a colleague when she’s on one of their raucous team nights out. Not in a malicious way, she just doesn’t remember what she’s not allowed to tell when she’s drunk. Drunk mouths speak sober thoughts, and all that.
I’ve been out with those media sharks before, tagging along with Libby, and those guys could get secrets out of a stone.
The jarring ringtone of my phone echoes through the tiny-ass bathroom, cutting into my downward spiral of thoughts.
I give the plunger a last shove with both hands and the blockage finally clears. Typical Spider.
Washing my hands, I grab my phone from beside the sink before it rings off. The screen reads “Real Estate Jackass Dave.”
“Hey, Dave. Any updates?” I ask, struggling not to sound desperate.
“Got something for you, Miss Walsh,” he bellows over the line.
Don’t get excited. He’s probably trying to sell you a timeshare in a Florida swamp.
“Somebody’s made an offer for your apartment. Full asking price.”
I stare at the plunger in disbelief. “You’re shitting me.”
His laughter crackles over the line, nearly as incredulous as I feel. “Hand on heart, Miss Walsh. It’s some company that wants it. I’ll shoot you the details in an email.”
Pulse thundering, I force out, “So, what’s the catch?”
“Legit offer. They’re ready to pay cash and wrap up the deal pronto.”
Dear God, don’t toy with me like this. I can’t handle the crash after this high.
I sink down onto the closed lid of the toilet seat, my whole body trembling. “Are you sure this isn’t a scam? How can I trust that this is for real?”
“They’re a reputable investment company. Based in the Caymans.”
“But why? Why do they want my apartment?”
Is it JP? No, that’s an insane thought. One doesn’t just sleep with someone and then buy their property.
Although, he is a billionaire.
Dave brushes it off. “Well, you know the drill. Real estate is usually a safe bet. They’re probably expanding their portfolio.”
Meaning he’s got no fucking clue.
