When I gethome, Sadie is lying on the kitchen counter with her head in the sink, Nash standing beside her and washing her hair. I’ve never seen them do this before, but I must admit, I haven’t paid attention to when and how or how often either of them wash their hair. It’s not something I would ever consider. And seeing him wash her hair in the sink isn’t something I would consider either.
Nash watches me as I walk over. Sadie must not realize I’m here, or if she does, she hasn’t reacted, but Nash’s gaze is pleading with me about something, begging me to do the right thing, though I have no idea what that right thing is. “It’s wash day,” he finally says.
“Oh. Okay.”
Sadie looks up at me, hair full of bubbles that Nash is rinsing out.
Do girls her age not wash their own hair? I’m not prepared for any of this.
I set my bag on the counter. “Do you…need any help?” I ask, hoping that’s not the wrong thing to say. The way Nash’s familiar brown eyes narrow at me, shooting daggers, tells me it absolutely was.
“She’s my sister. I’ve been doing this her whole life. I canhandle it,” he snaps.
I don’t bother mentioning she’s my sister too. Nash is very protective of her and sees me as some kind of competition.
I have a million questions, but I don’t know how to ask them, and that just makes the hairs on my nape rise, make me feel useless and unwanted, two things I’ve always struggled with. How could I not when there’s never been a time in my life that I have been wanted?
Colton wants you. He’s willing to dom you without fucking you. That must mean he really cares in one way or another, right?
All that train of thought does is frustrate me even more. My feeling of inadequacy with my siblings and annoyance at my brain bringing Colton into it makes me snap, “Fine,” as though I’m a child. “I’ll be back out when you’re done to start dinner.”
I go straight to my room, closing the door behind me. I strip out of my slacks and button-up and change into a pair of lounge pants and a T-shirt.
Should I have been washing Sadie’s hair? Is there something I’m missing? How are we ever going to make this work when Nash clearly hates me so much?
I grab my cell and sit on the edge of my bed. To my surprise, there’s another text from Sir.
You should be proud of asking for what you want today. You’re not good at it because you haven’t had people in your life you could depend on. Am I right?
My chest tightens. Why is he asking me this? He’s just supposed to be telling me what to do and…I don’t know, planning my days for me or something.
My fingers linger over the screen. I don’t want to respond, don’t want to let him in, but I’m the one who asked him for this. How can I expect him to follow through if I’m nothonest with him? If I don’t help him understand why I am the way I am, which will help him in what he’s giving me.
I’m only doing this because of our arrangement, I tell myself. That’s it. And I don’t have to give him all the details.
Me: Yes.
Okay. Thank you for telling me. I’ll keep that in mind. I’d like you to be as honest with me as you can. If there’s something you need, tell me. If there’s something from your past that affects your response to something I do or say, tell me that too.
My stomach twists. I…don’t like the idea of that, but I also want to make him proud. I want to be good for him. Sir is giving me this, so I can at least try and be as good for him as I can.
Me: Yes, Sir.
Thanks. I need to take care of something, so we’ll talk again tonight. What time do you typically go to bed?
Me: About ten or eleven.
I’ll message you at 9:30. Before that I’d like you to send me a text with your work schedule and any other weekly appointments you might have. You don’t have to tell me what they are, but I want to get an idea of what your weeks are like.
I shift uncomfortably, but…why is blood also rushing toward my groin? Why is my skin tingling and my dick beginning to chub?
Me: Yes, Sir. Thank you.
Good boy. We’ll talk soon.
I don’t respond right away, not sure what I would even say, so I work on writing out my weekly schedule on a piece of paper, then take a photo and send it to him. He doesn’t respond, and I try not to stress about it. He made it sound like he’s busy. It’s not because I did anything wrong. I hate that my brain automatically goes there.
Nash and Sadie are done with her hair when I return. He’s in the living room, Sadie at the kitchen counter. “Sorry,”she says. “My hair is really thick and hard for me to do.”
