I don’t even know anymore. This whole thing is queer-coded Shakespeare with court documents.
Still. If Hank and Chad are shacking up in Sadboy Cottage now, why the fuck are they coming for me and Jett?
What if I just… drop off a gift basket. A “sorry I shattered your windshield and decorated it like a Lisa Frank vengeance vision board” kind of basket. Set it down at the 100-yard line in a hostage exchange. With ribbons. And peach rings.
I want to celebrate. But I’ve got training with Jett today. Which means I have to survive training with Jett today.
Benji left for work about an hour ago still glittering from last night. From this morning. From me.
God, he’s got stamina that should be illegal in three states and a moral constitution soft enough to kiss me good morning even though I came on his thigh and called him “my sweet little treehouse.”
Life is chaos. I am thriving.
After I finish explaining things to Mr. Wriggles, who is a very good listener for a worm, I hit the shower.
The glitter doesn’t all come off. That’s fine. That’s perfect. I’ll be applying more anyway. Strategic shimmer. I want Jett to sparkle like sin when I’m done with him.
Today’s outfit is war paint. Black pants. Black tank. Pink rhinestone skeleton hands, two grabbing my tits and twopalming my ass. It’s not subtle. But neither is my mission: Maximum distraction. Immediate boner. Delirious rage-lust.
I have a new black scrunchie. It says fuck you in hot pink cursive with little kiss marks. It’s us in an accessory. He’ll steal it. God, I love us.
He is every part of me I thought I’d have to hide or sharpen into a weapon to survive and he wants it. Wants me. With all that hate curled up in his chest, he looks at me like I’m the last cigarette before execution.
In the kitchen, my heart does a cartoon wobble because Benji took the lunch I packed him. With the glitter at the bottom. The dumb, flirty notes I wrote on each snack. The kiss I left in lipstick on the brownie wrapper. I imagine his big fingers dusted in shimmer and smiling anyway. My whole body goes warm.
But that’s not what gets me, it’s the two plastic containers he left behind in the fridge.
One is covered in little crown and heart stickers. The other just says “Jett” in angry black Sharpie.
Fuck. He made us lunch.
I open them slowly, afraid they might explode from sheer sweetness.
Egg salad sandwiches. Cut into triangles. No crusts.
Jett has flaming hot chips. I have ranch. There’s also a little bag of mixed nuts and M&Ms in each.
He packed us fucking snack bags. Benji loves us.
I blink real fast because if I cry I’ll ruin my mascara.
I send him a message before I combust.
Me: You are my heart
Benji: Same. Don’t break Jett
Me: Can’t help it. Take care of Rhys. Love you
Benji: Will do. Love you
I press my phone to my chest, squeeze my thighs together, and grab my things. Heart full. Eyes dry. Pussy charged.
I walk out smiling.
Since Jett’s not fighting it anymore, whatever this is between us, you’d think the thrill would fizzle. That the ache would settle and my chest wouldn’t still buzz like a live wire every time I think about his voice saying my name like a sin he doesn’t want to stop committing.
I see how hard he’s trying to be gentle. How he’s reaching past his own wiring to meet me in the mess.
