“There’s no way that after he got an eyeful of you basically flashing him, he just gave up on getting freaky with you,” Sophie said, stealing one of the donuts.
“Maybe he was super horny, and he spent the night with Possum Purse,” Ivy remarked.
“Zoe texted me all about his date. She even sent a pic,” Elsie said, wrinkling her nose. “There’s no way Possum Purse satisfied Sebastian’s desire for sweaty, messy sex.”
“Stop beating around the bush,” Grace said, looking up from her computer, “and send him a topless photo and be done with it. Give him a deadline.”
I guzzled the rest of my coffee.
A topless photo to Sebastian then sex with Sebastian?
Maybe that wasn’t such a good decision.
“I ate and drank too much for a topless photo,” I complained, curling up on the couch.
* * *
But it appearedto be a day for bad ideas abounding. I had overdone it not only on sweets for breakfast, but also pizza and cake for lunch, then corn dogs and macaroni and cheese and more cake for dinner, and then pizza and cake for second dinner, plus wine because why the hell not—I was about to lose my apartment.
I sat on my couch-bed, Baxter snoozing at my feet, and watched reruns ofSex and the City, wishing that I, too, had an awesome boyfriend who bought me random things like sparkly purses shaped like a penguin and that I, too, had a tastefully decorated prewar apartment and that I, too, had a closet full of shoes and that I, too, could walk in said shoes without falling over, scuffing them, or losing one in the gutter.
I looked blearily at the mini fridge. There was one more piece of cake in there.
“Save that piece for breakfast,” I warned myself. “You know you’re going to wake up hungover and want that cake for breakfast.”
But I needed the cake to curb my craving for sex and help me stop obsessing about Sebastian.
What if he didn’t like me?
Backtrack.I knew he didn’t like me, but I thought he thought I was sexy. Maybe there was something wrong with me.
Fuck.
I opened the fridge. The cake sat there gleaming on the empty platter.
“Don’t eat it. Don’t eat it.”
I closed the fridge door.
But seriously, he had seen my tits—well, practically. He had felt me up, then after he had made out with me, he didn’t want it. He didn’t even say, “Hey, I’ll call you later,” or offer to take me out on a date.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. We’re not dating. You’re not going to be that weird, needy girl. This is a pure-sex thing. You’re not looking for a relationship. Shoot, you’d be terrible as a billionaire’s wife. You can barely act like a functional human being at nice events. You’re not Manhattan slick—you’re a country girl who hunts beetles. You have leaves in your hair,” I reminded myself. “Thou shalt not pine for Sebastian!”
I knew what would happen. Girls like me did not get nice things handed to them on silver platters. We had to work hard.Blood, sweat, and tears, baby.Then we had to shed more tears when our landlords yanked all our hard work out from under us.
“Why can’t I ever have something nice?”
Like sex.
“I am in charge of my own sexuality, and I am not eating that cake,” I said.
Baxter woke up with a snort, and I let him outside. Then I finished the bottle of wine, pulled out my phone, and took off my clothes.
“It’s purely a sex thing, not a weird liking-a-boy thing,” I assured myself as I tried to find a good angle that didn’t make me look like an overfed raccoon.
I tried to frame up a topless pic first.
“No,” I told myself, “go big or go home.”
