I take a picture.
Because fuck it. Because chaos is free and spite has no curfew.
If Bendy Bitch is blissfully unaware of her boyfriend’s extramarital hole-in-one, that’s not my problem. Maybe next time she’ll think twice before filing a restraining order against a girl just because I borrowed her identity for a weekend. She never should’ve let me steal her phone if she didn’t want me still logged in to her social media.
I upload the photo to her story with a sticker that says Golf Sluts 4 Satan and a devil emoji.
Let the games begin.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Rhys
The mall was a mistake.
I know it the second we walk in and Benji races toward Victoria’s Secret like he’s on a mission from God. A half-naked mannequin in pink lace greets us, and Jett snorts behind me like this is beneath him. Yet somehow he’s the first one elbow-deep in a bin of glittery body lotion called Sugar Whore Mist.
“Do not let her put that on,” he says. “I’ll black out and ruin public decency laws.”
“Perfect,” Benji says, unbothered, holding up a sheer baby-doll nightie in pale lavender with tiny bows on the straps. “She’d look dangerous in this.”
“She looks dangerous without it,” I say. I’m trying not to imagine her in that thing. Or how quickly I’d pull it off. Or how I’d press her into the sheets and make her come so hard she cries.
“She’d look like weaponized cotton candy,” Jett adds, eyeing the same one. “Get two. She’ll destroy both inside a week.”
Benji throws them in the bag, then grabs a full-size shimmer body spray and holds it up like a prize. “This says it smells like cherry milkshake. And sin. Got matching lotion. Both shimmers.”
“We need to smell it,” I say, because suddenly I care about lotion. And about everything she might rub into her skin.
We start spraying each other with every bottle in reach. Something called Crushed Rose Lust gets Jett right in the eye.He swears loudly and sprays me with Autumn Amber Nipple. I retaliate with Vanilla Sex Bomb, aimed squarely at his throat.
“Sir,” a clerk says through gritted teeth. “You need to stop.”
Benji grabs the one that smells like warm sugar and beach orgasms. We all agree. That sounds like fun.
Jett tosses the lusty rose one at him.
I read one more bottle. The notes include daft shit like birthday cake and smiles. That’s fucking her. I spray it on Jett’s shoulder while eyeing the clerk. Then sniff. “Yeah, this one screams Delilah.” I hand it to Benji. Purchase made.
Next stop is the toy store.
It’s wall-to-wall neon plastic chaos. Plushies everywhere. Jett goes quiet, like he’s pretending not to care, but I watch him. His expression softens as he wanders straight to the stuffed animals. There’s a section labeled “Magical Pals,” and I swear he looks reverent.
He picks up something pink. Fluffy. A unicorn… llama. I think.
“What even is that?” I ask.
He doesn’t look up. “It’s perfect.”
It is.
I hate him a little in that moment. Not in any real way. Just in that quietly envious, fuck-he-knows-her-so-well way. He gets her weird. Her chaos. He gets her in the soft spaces, and I’m still learning how.
Jett buys it without question, like this is normal and sane. Like we aren’t three grown men building a glittering offering to our shared sex goddess.
Then we hit the jewelry store.
The air shifts. It always does around diamonds. They’re too reflective. They catch things you don’t want to see.
