“Think you’re the only one who’s got hot-and-heavy playdates, Rae?”
“Playdates? Hey, who are you—?”
“That was the doorbell. Better run!”
“Who is it?” I yell, though she’s already ended the call.
When did Sam start having secret midnight sex dates? I mean, the midnight-sex-dates thing is typical Sam, but the secrecy sure isn’t. I know Sam better than anyone on this planet. And that’s saying a lot, given how close-knit my family is.
I don’t like that she hasn’t told me about this new person, whoever they are. Then again, I went to the club without telling her.
But Sam and I have been friends forever. She knows me and my wackadoodle family to aT. She has opinions. About everything. So maybe I didn’t tell her because I didn’t want to have to overdiscuss why I want to be submissive in bed. I just wanted to do it.
If I’m being honest, Sam’s been kind of pushy lately when it comes to my life decisions. Like the book-nook thing. If it were up to her, I’d quit my job, move to some island in the sun, and become an Etsy millionaire.
Do I occasionally fantasize about doing something other than HR for a living? Absolutely. Would it be nice to make money doing something creative? Hell yeah. Do I wonder how it would feel to go somewhere or do something just for myself?
Well, yes. And that’s exactly why I went to that club tonight. One night. Just to see.
I don’t need more than that anyway. I’ve got everything Icould possibly want here. A job, a family, and my very own she shed without Brendan negging everything from my romance novels and book nooks to the dinosaur-print dress I never got up the courage to wear while he was around.
Somehow, my ex being a jerk about my clothes reminds me of the General’s compliments tonight, and then I start thinking about how it felt when he rubbed my back, picturing what might have happened if we’d had privacy, so when another alert comes through, I jump like a startled rabbit, nearly upsetting my entire work setup.
Crap. Dad’s heart rate’s gone up again.
I call him. When there’s no response, I open the sisters’ group chat and type out a message.
Me: Anyone talk to Dad?
Hannah: What? Why?
Me: Heart rate alert.
Hannah: Calling now.
Me: I just tried. Can you go over?
Hannah: Schaffer’s not home yet.
Still at work at midnight on a Friday while his wife’s home with a five-year-old and three-year-old twins? It’s about time Schaffer and I had a chat.
Me: Anything?
Hannah: No answer.
Me: Don’t leave the kids. I’ll take care of it.
Shaking a little as I picture Dad passed out on the bathroom floor or stuck in the shower, I send him a quick message and video call him again.
I’m about to hang up when he fumbles the phone on and puts it to his head, giving me a screen full of ear. “Rae? That you?”
“Dad? What’s going on?” Relief pours through me. “You okay?”
“Yes. Yes, fine. Fine. Why are you calling so late?”
“I got another one of those alerts.”So late?“It’s not even midnight.” After a pause, “This is a video call, Dad.”
“Oh, oh, crap. Sorry.” He holds the phone up in front of his face and squints into it with a broad Dad grin.
