Also, I handled Chad. Poorly? Maybe. Legally actionable? Not yet. Let’s unpack that tomorrow, time permitting.
Rhys Journal
I don’t have anything personal to say to you, except:
Your receptionist is a gatekeeping demon and I’m filing a grievance.
Anyway. I shopped for our session-date or date-session. Whatever. I bought expensive chocolate and new thigh highs.
You stared at the last pair like they held the answers to your repressed trauma.
Let’s see what these ones do.
See you tomorrow. Wear something that makes you feel powerful. Or edible.
Benji Journal
You confuse the hell out of me.
You said thank you.
No one says thank you. Not after B&E and shirt theft and possibly licking their toothbrush.
And now I want to do it again. Harder. Kinder. Wilder. Whatever you’ll let me.
But also, I think I love you. And that feels big. Too big.
But maybe that’s okay.
Jett Journal
You wanted me. I felt it when you curled your fingers and muttered my name like it hurt to want me.
And then Chad the Cockroach came crawling out of the shadows and ruined everything.
I fixed it. (Kind of.)
Hope you liked your presents. Hope they scared you. Or turned you on. Or both.
Best case scenario? You corner me before group therapy, throw me against a wall, and fuck the common sense out of me.
Worst case? You glare at me across the room with that look like you want to ruin my whole nervous system.
And then we circle each other until one of us snaps.
Spoiler: doesn’t matter which one I’ll enjoy it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Delilah
Since I have to wait until three-fucking-o-clock to see my very unavailable emotional support wet dream, I decide to knock a few essentials off my to-do list. Rhys might not be aware of my progress (because that office skank with the dull acrylics won’t forward my messages), but I know. I am healing. I am goal-oriented.
Today’s mission? Secure my rightful place as Friday’s nude model/artistic revelation. Because no one, and I mean no one, wants to sketch that scrawny little goose-necked sad girl. She’s a human breadstick. No tits, no chaos, no depth.
Rhys doesn’t want her. He wants me.
I head over to Goose Bitch HQ, aka the crusty old walk-up above the 24-hour laundromat that smells like dryer sheets and broken dreams. I hit the buzzer with confidence and blind faith. Someone lets me in without asking who I am, which is how you know these people have never lived through a true crime documentary.
