I’m not a virgin—far from it—but the encounters I’ve had with men since Cooper and Caleb Knox were never exactly my choosing, more so a bid for self-preservation when shit got tough, and allowing them to use my body felt like the only escape.
My college boyfriend when I was seventeen was a perfect example of my ability to attract the most narcissistic of men.
Jacob wanted sex—no, wanted implies I had a choice in the matter; Jacob demanded sex. I wasn’t sold on the idea, but after he locked me in his father’s shed and held a set of rusting pinking shears to my throat—I allowed him to hike up my school skirt, masking my sobs with mumbled exhales thatI knew he would selfishly tell himself meant I was having just as much fun as he was.
Later that year, a policeman pulled me over for dangerous driving on the hard shoulder of the motorway, one of my many attempts to flee the latest horror show of a foster placement. With my one shabby suitcase packed, Celine Dion blaring out of the speakers, and being at least five cans of white lightening over the limit—add that to the fact I didn’t have a driver’s license—my shitty foster mother had declared her vehicle stolen three hours previously; I was officially up shit creek without a paddle. The vodka and cheap cider dulled my ability to charm the young officer who looked fresh out of the academy. He offered me a choice that‘a girl like me wouldn’t want to turn down.’He’d turn a blind eye and let me continue on my way, or he would arrest me and make sure they put me on house arrest while I awaited trial. In return for my compliance, option A would be the more desirable outcome, so I did what I needed to and welcomed the cold press of the hood of his patrol car against my cheek. I had hoped my blood alcohol level would help to relax me, but he was too big, and unlike Jacob, he had no forethought to stumble around my crotch to warm me up a little. I wasn’t able to hide my cries that night, the starless darkness swallowing them up until my lungs burned with the exertion.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EBONY
“Another drink?” I say aloud to no-one spiritedly and the room of strangers cheer and hollar.
I shake away thoughts of my past that haunt me the second I close my eyes at night and pour myself another drink, watching as the splash of the lemonade mixer sloshes over the side of the red cup. I take a sip and wince, sucking air between my pinched lips when the fiery heat of the alcohol burns my throat and warms my belly.
Perfect balance.
I would choose to have sex with a guy tonight; I wouldn’t be manhandled into taking it like some twisted fucker’s sweet girl. I would find the release I need on my terms.
‘Anyone would think you were preparing to win a Nobel prize.’
I’ll file my outstanding contributions to dick-expertise under the section markedpeacebecause right now there isnothing scientific about how I plan to hook a guy willing to fuck me senseless, hidden away in a back room during the biggest party of the year.
Holed up in the corner of the open-plan kitchenette, I fuss with my frizzy curls, pinning the strip of bleached hair framing my face back before dabbing my sweaty forehead with a napkin.
Step one: pop open a couple of buttons.
I make light work of it, tugging at my bra and rearranging my cleavage as the material falls open, the overhead strobe lights highlighting the accented curve of my breasts.
Step two: be concise, alluring, to the point.
‘I want you. Do you like boobs? Ever heard of hide the sausage?’
I’m quickly realising I might have no game because any man on the receiving end of that little speech will be running for the hills—and rightly so, as even I’m mentally questioning whether I need to up my prescription dosage.
Never missing her moment, that little voice in my head chimes in.‘Step three: if you get on your knees, don’t forget guys appreciate it when you tickle their balls.’
In my quest to bolster what little courage I can muster after the worst pep-talk known to man, I nod at my reflection in the fridge and lift my chin.
Normal people do this shit on a daily. You’re blending in, Ebony. Even if it kills you.
I consider death as a backup plan and turn quickly before I can change my mind to step into the throngs of people that have gathered in the small space to refill their cups. I get an inch forward in my pursuit for dick and slaminto a solid chest. Strawberry-scented liquor soaks my dress, the material clinging to my heated skin as I gasp.
Well, that’s one way to cool down.
“Shit. I’m so sorry,” I fuss, grabbing a wad of napkins off the island and dabbing at his football jersey stained red from his drink.
‘You get an A for effort; I don’t know what this is, but it doesn’t feel like blending in.’
“Fancy seeing you here,” Mateo chuckles, and I sigh with relief at his friendly expression as he takes the napkins from me.
“Whatever the cost to dry clean it, please let me know.”
“This old thing? My dad played varsity. I won’t tell him we ruined it if you don’t.”
“Hells Haven Hellcats. I didn’t know your family originated from Hells Haven.”
“Born and bred. I don’t think my mother would have let me study anywhere else. She likes to keep the family close by. A big worrier,” he adds with a smile, and the tug of jealously as he describes the picture-perfect family has me fumbling with any words of response to fill the growing silence. He’s about to ask me some of my family fun facts and everything in me decides we’re going with the back-up plan, I’m ready to throw myself off the roof. I could lie, I could fabricate the white picket fence childhood I’ve often dreamed about.
