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I drop his collar and quickly button the shirt.
“Yes.” Is it just me, or is Fred’s voice strained? I look up, finding his eyes glued to my chest. He’s checking out my flapjacks! I wiggle happily, then groan in pain. His gaze snaps to mine and his jaw ticks. “You’re clearly hurt, so let’s get you settled in whatever room you're most comfortable in, then I’ll check you. I know you don’t want to go, but I need to see if you’re injured enough to need an emergency room.”
I squeeze my eyes shut at the thought. Bud works at the local hospital. How humiliating.
Instead of telling Fred that, I shake my head. “I don’t feel comfortable in any room here.”
He crosses his thick arms. “Why the hell not?”
Aw, hell. This night seriously can’t get any worse.
“Because this isn’t my house,” I state, leaving all emotion from my voice. I shove my shoulders back, daring him to judge me. “I met a guy on a dating app, we went out for drinks, came back to his place, and then…” I trail off, the wind leaving my sales as his head jerks back in shock.
Damn. Dammit. Dammy-do!
“And then what, bed bug?”
Sugar-tits! I should not be getting turned on by the dark note in his voice.
With a deep breath, I let it all out in a rush. “We were hooking up, and he shoved a buttplug all the way up my ass, got it stuck, ran away when I said I needed emergency help, and I’m now bleeding out!”
He gapes at me and a sob rips free from deep in my chest.
“I’m dying, Freddikins!” I wail, struggling to breathe as the events of tonight came crashing back in. “I’m dying in a random dude’s house and I don’t even have my squish pile, or books, or anything!” I throw my hands in the air, committing to my downfall. “I didn’t even get an orgasm before he broke my womanhood!”
Suddenly, I’m sobbing uncontrollably while Fred continues to stare at me and reality sets it.
Things definitely can always get worse.
