“If they dig into my recent past, they’ll find I bullied a kid at my last high school,” I admit, and it doesn’t take an acting degree to light my cheeks with shame. Especially since I’m fudging the gender. “We’ve worked things out since”—not a lie exactly—“but there’s a story there if anyone cares to look.”
Instead of the caution I anticipate, Maxwell stares at me with something closer to respect. “Bullying is something we can manage,” he says, holding out a hand to shake goodbye. “I’m glad you told me. It’s better to front foot these things than find them out when I crack open the morning paper.”
I nod, a warm buzz in my chest. Is this what all those posers mean when they use the hashtag blessed?
The car ride home is a lot easier on my nerves than the drive out there. When I get to my room, I carefully hang up my suit, ready to return. If things continue their current trajectory, I’ll soon be buying one for keeps.
In bed, I press my ear to the wall but there’s a gentle snoring coming from Esme’s room. No entertainment from that quarter tonight.
Instead, I grab my phone and cue up the link Gareth sent me, the footage now close on a fortnight old. A video I still haven’t watched from top to tail because I’m worried to see what it captured.
A video I didn’t mention to Maxwell despite my honesty session. But the private server gives me some reassurance. Tarryn’s dad would skin him alive if he discovered his son had released this, and it’s hardly a long bow to draw. Not when it’s clearly his study to begin with.
Watching it now, I see things I missed at the time. Even the dim lighting and the single camera angle shows me a hundred different expressions raging across Esme’s face. The fear, yes, but at times, she’s clearly enjoying herself as much as me. Even through the anger, the panic, the danger—or maybe because of it.
I stroke myself as I start it again from the beginning. As porn, the dark lighting and set angle leaves a lot to be desired, but as an aid to my memory, it can’t be beaten.
My head willingly provides the soundtrack, broadcasting each gasp, each guttural moan.
The angle hides the full condom wrapper on the floor; there’s no hint in the frame except for her tossingsomethingat me. The darkness hides my crime in the same way it hides the subtler expressions of her face.
Regret pools in my muscles. Since my phone’s right in my hand, I leave aside my self-pleasure to send her a text.“I’m sorry about the condom. Forgive me for being an arse?”
“Got your test results back, did you?”
I smile at the speed of her reply. Guess her sleep wasn’t that sound after all.
And the answer is yes. I went for a retest a few days after seeing her results and have been notified, treated, and am counting down to a last appointment to give me the all-clear.
Since she’s awake, I think of paying her a visit. I wonder if a soft knock at her door would be answered as readily as my message, then push that aside.
Over text, I’m fine. I can send myself back to a time when my skin didn’t crawl with hatred. In person, I can’t be as sure about my reaction.
I don’t want to undo this fledgling progress, especially since I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’s the reason I could meet my sponsor tonight and not come across as more of a fool than I did.
I consider thanking her, but she wouldn’t have insisted on being anonymous if she wanted credit.
“Saw your dad tonight. I’m schmoozing with the big boys now.”
“Careful. If you get your nose stuck up there, it’s not a pleasant life.”
“Why no buzzing tonight?”
A second later I hear it through the wall and my smile spreads so far, I must look like a total fool. Not that I care. As I start up my efforts again, in synch with hers, all I care about is the heat spreading through my body.
And the satisfaction that accompanies my orgasm when I hear her softly cry out my name.
CHAPTERTWELVE
ESME
It’stwo and a half weeks into my unspoken peace agreement with Seb and I am finally relaxing into the new status quo. Not that I’m everrelaxedrelaxed but compared to the first day, my nerves have swallowed all the chill pills.
“No,” Rowena squeals, pulling her foot out of my hands which are occupied in turning her nails dark blue then affixing tiny silver stars. The common room is pretty much ours since Thursday is traditionally everyone-catch-up-on-studying-night, a prelude to the weekend. “You can’t put six on there, I’ll look like the Australian flag.”
“Who’s getting close enough to your feet to count?” I answer, grabbing her foot and returning it to the beauty parlour of my lap. “Spill, lady, or I’ll tickle you.”
“You’re already tickling me,” she points out, completing the accusation with a squirm.
