Whoa! Where had that errant thought come from? My internal response wasn’t expected; it had come out of nowhere, a protective need to jump out of my truck and touch her face.
She turned around and adjusted her sandal, bending over right in front of my parking spot.
I groaned aloud.
She wasn’t just lovely — she was freaking gorgeous, beautiful, a super model walking amongst a sea of boring faces.
In that moment, I wanted her to look at me. Desperately.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she fixed her shoe and continued on her way.
I watched her for five seconds, but the seconds felt like minutes ticking by. She licked her lips, tucked her hair, and looked behind her several times as if someone was following her. Then she looked in my direction, but not long enough to make eye contact.
It was enough, but I had a strange feeling I’d need to repeat the process, not because I needed to know the girl responsible for everything — but because I felt such loss when my vision cleared and she wasn’t in it.
Which was honestly the most messed up thing I could have ever thought. It was betrayal, pure and simple. She hadn’t ever been mine.
She’d been his.
The last thing I needed was to join the same downfall.
CHAPTER THREE
The demons clawed from the inside out, dying to be free. She entertained them for a while. Hell, she entertained me for a while, but in the end, it was never enough. The first time I told her I needed more, she panicked. I explained a man of my tastes couldn’t hold on to just one girl. When fear entered her eyes, I was so turned on, I almost hated myself, so I told her to strip in front of me and walk around the hotel naked in her heels. She did it, and when she finished, I told her to take pictures of herself and send them to three of the girls who had crushes on me, telling them that clearly I wasn’t interested if I had that. She did it. She did it all. And in the end, I rewarded her for it. But the emptiness remained. Even with my body sated, my mind wasn’t free. I was never free. —The Journal of Taylor B.
Lisa
I WAS ALREADY late for class, thanks to another crazy note in my mailbox, and when I’d gone to the student center to change my PO again, the student assistant had rolled her eyes and told me that maybe I should just stop having a mailbox.
Right.
Stop having a mailbox.
Like a hermit who lived in the woods and shot rabbits. I’d given her the best smile I could manage and then resorted to pleading when she didn’t budge. My heart had been in my throat the whole time, my hands shaking. She’d seen me as an ungrateful nuisance; if she only knew how scared I was.
How scared I always was.
By the time we’d straightened everything out, I was already late for my Psychology of Emotion class. It was a sophomore-level class that I needed for my teaching major. In theory, it made sense that elementary ed majors had to take a lot of psychology, but that didn’t mean I had to like it.
Psychology just reminded me how messed up I was — how messed up he’d been.
I pulled a granola bar from my pocket and sprinted with it in hand all the way to the Social Sciences building. By the time I made it, I was six minutes late, sweating, and pretty confident I’d inhaled at least two bugs. The granola bar had softened with my tight grip. I tore open the wrapper, scarfed it down in a few bites, and anxiously looked around the building.
Room 202. I glanced at each door and finally stopped in front of the right classroom. With a huff, I pushed the door open and froze.
Every eye turned to me. With a gulp, I self-conscious
ly tucked a piece of short hair behind my right ear, allowing the rest of my hair to curtain across my hot face.
“You’re late,” a smooth voice said.
I chewed my lip and walked straight toward an empty desk. “Sorry,” I mumbled, scooting past two students and finally stopping to turn around. “It won’t happen ag—”
The professor tilted his head.
Words caught in my throat. I couldn’t speak, was finding it hard to breathe, and even though I told my body I needed to sit down and stop making a fool out of myself, all I could do was stare.