Page 14 of Fractured Destiny

He’d be my boyfriend. We’d hold hands in the hallway. I’d be popular. The shy girl would have friends by proxy. A little pain was worth it.

Instead, on Monday, the entire school received a video via text. Asher fucking me. Our heads were cropped out but we were naked and you could see and hear everything. Including him grunting my name.

Noa.

Noa.

Noa.

By lunch, I was a punchline. Understood no one was coming to help me.

Reporting him would mean saying the words out loud. Telling my parents was too humiliating. Asher’s family had too much clout to be punished. Besides, it was my fault for being so stupid.

So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I turned the knife around.

If they wanted a slut, fine. I’d give them one.

The next weekend, I drank half a bottle of vodka and let a cute sophomore from the swim team fuck me in the bathroom at the school dance and made sure people heard us. I walked out first and told anyone who’d listen he was a terrible lay before he could spread more rumors.

Control the narrative. My new religion.

I’m a Calder, after all.

The next weekend, I hooked up with someone new. The weekend after, a different boy. I became a hot commodity. Every boy in school wanted to fuck me and get a seal of approval. Somewhere in the wreckage, I discovered something inconvenient.

I loved sex.

Everything about it, especially the power and attention. I could turn a boy stupid with my mouth on his cock or letting him finger my pussy. I used those boys to learn what I liked. By the end of the year, orgasms came easy, hard, and often. All the boys wanted me. Every girl despised me.

Didn’t matter.

Junior year brought college boys and a fake ID. Adderall kept me thin and convinced me I could outrun sleep forever. Xanax handled the crash. Pot, mushrooms or whatever edible somebody had on hand became the norm. Senior year I added coke, psychedelics, and one of my teachers.

My parents saw a 4.3 GPA and a USC acceptance.

They didn’t know any of the rest. I made sure of it.

When I moved to Los Angeles for college, the city opened its mouth and swallowed any remaining self-respect I had left.

Bree and Clarissa found me in a bathroom at a classmate’s Hollywood Hills party where I was reapplying lipstick after sucking off a guy for a bump. We became friends before my mouth stopped tasting like him.

They introduced me to the celebrity circuit. My other identity was born there.

Noa Calder took art history exams in sunlit lecture halls.

Neeley Caldwell spent nights and weekends as a high-priced whore. Clean health paperwork. Cash upfront. No exceptions. Older men living in the most expensive zip codes with drivers and security gates coveted young, beautiful arm candy. At first, they paid enough to make the arrangement feel lucrative rather than dirty.

I didn’t need the money coming from such a privileged upbringing. My parents covered school and gave me a generous monthly allowance for designer outfits and spa treatments. Mainly, I used the earnings for my drug habit, an IUD, and weekly STD panels so I could fuck guys raw.

It paid more.

My double life was a middle finger to everyone who judged me. Especially to the boy who stole my innocence and every classmate who called me a whore. The way I saw it, why not get paid a fortune to fuck? Every time a man handed me money for making me come, it felt like I’d won.

For a while, I believed the lie. Even when things began to escalate.

Bree and I were high on molly the first time a director paid to watch us together. She rolled onto her back, spread her legs, and put her hand at the back of my neck. She tasted like coconut sunscreen and salt. I worked her with my mouth for twenty minutes while rubbing my own clit, both of us shaking when we came. At some point, the director lifted me by the hips and slammed into me without asking, and laughed when I squirted on his thighs.

Called me a fucking gift.