Sloth (Sinful Secrets 1)

I snort. “Safe for who, you?”

He shrugs. “C’mon, Cleo. You know a guy’s gotta watch himself,” he drawls.

I sigh. “If you say so.”

After we shoot the shit for a few minutes—I find out that Matt is from Metairie, a little town outside New Orleans—he invites me to call him anytime. I just smile and tell him, “Thanks.”

Friday evening passes in a blur of frat parties, where I hand out pot to the few people I owe and try to avoid worrying about Kellan Walsh. If he was going to do something, he’d have already done it.

Once I’m back at the house, and safely in my room, I strip down and let my naked body enjoy the cool air. I take a seat at the desk inside my closet and dial Kennard.

“Hey, Kennard. I’m so sorry to bother you again, but I really need some more. Like... really bad. It’s an emergency for me. So Sunday... can I get a little more than my usual?”

“Psshhh.” I can see Kennard’s brown eyes roll. “I got nothing. I’m all out. My guy’s gone. I don’t know where he went.”

And just like that, my supply is gone. I’m up all night, feeling ill about my drought.

I toss around in bed, considering other high-dollar occupations. I could be a stripper—but I’m not phony enough. As Milasy has pointed out to me in more than one ‘sorority ambassador’ situation, I’m not very good at feigning interest—or anything, for that matter.

I never could convince Brennan that his ineffectual tongue-flicking felt good to me on the one or two occasions I forced him between my legs. There’s no way I could grin for a guy with body odor and wag my barely clad ass in his face.

Maybe I could sell a... what? Selling organs and other bodily fluids on the black market is illegal, so not that. I could sell my eggs... but that takes time. I don’t have time. A few weeks without my regular income could pull me under. Okay—not a few weeks; I do have some savings, but it would be gone in a month or two.

Shit.

I’m out of bed at 5:15 AM. I shower, brush and floss my teeth, work on cross-stitching a quote that, when I started cross-stitching it, I believed was attributed to Vonnegut. Since I started my project, I found it’s actually not Vonnegut, but some anon poetry-book person going by the name “pleasefindthis.”

“Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness.”

I arch my brows at the sentiment—which doesn’t exactly jibe with my mood right now—and put the piece aside after forming the “n” in pain. I debate going for a run, going for a swim, and working on a canvas before I finally give in and, a little after 8 AM, shoot my new friend Matt a text.

He calls me immediately and tells me we can meet up in the afternoon. He gives me an address in the middle of nowhere. I know it’s the middle of nowhere, because Google maps, which I’ve pulled up on my MacBook, has never heard of the address. I’ll have to go on Matt’s directions.

“Four-thirty okay with you?” he asks.

I bite my lip, staring at the spot on the Google map where I think his place is located. “So it’s down near the river, kinda south of town?”

“My friend’s place. Yeah, by the river.”

I tap my fingers on my chin. “Hmmm.”

“You good for it?”

“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “I don’t usually go to strangers’ houses without taking someone with me. Especially strangers like you.”

He laughs. “You gonna bring someone with you?”

“I’ve got another idea.”

A few minutes later, I receive a texted photo of Matt’s license. I shoot it to Lora, along with a text: ‘Hope I can trust your homeboy. Meeting up at 4:30 at a house on a dirt road off that county road with the big, red barn. Send a search party if u don’t hear from me by 7.’

I wriggle into my favorite black stretch jeans, pull a loose red blouse over my head, and slip into my silver Manolos. I drive through at my bank, at College Corner, and withdraw three th

ousand dollars. Then I point myself south, toward where the river weaves its way between the Alabama and Georgia lines.

The drive is shady and nice, with lots of pastures, big trees, and a few glimpses of the winding river. I have the top down on my Miata, and I’m feeling kind of excited. If I can start buying from Matt, it will be even better than Kennard. For one, no weekend trips to Albany. Assuming Matt’s not lying to me, or a freaking cop, he’s got a big supply. To top it off, on our first and only deal, he was cheaper than Kennard—and the shit was higher quality. Like... a lot higher.

I turn down the dirt road Matt mentioned, and my car starts bouncing. Some of the dust I’m kicking up ends up in my mouth, and I wish I’d left my car’s top up. I take it a little slower, shut my mouth, and squint, then look down at the directions I punched into my phone’s notepad.