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I should let my masked stranger go. I should free him to find a woman worthy of him. But on top of being a vile human being, I’m also a selfish bitch, because the thought of him with another woman makes me think I would look damn good in orange. He’s mine.
Rhys isn’t.
He. Isn’t.
He never will be.
But this guy, he’s here. He cares for me. He stayed when he had no reason to.
After the party, after we were both too exhausted to cum again, he took an Uber with me to my place. I didn’t ask him to stay. He didn’t offer. He walked me to my door, kissed me like I was hogging all the air and waited for me to get inside.
I remember standing in the center of my apartment, heart breaking into a billion pieces as it registered that I would never see him again. He no longer had any reason to stick around. We fucked and fooled around in that basement for hours. Why would he want more?
The reality of the situation was clear: he could have anyone. Someone who let him take his mask off. Someone who wanted to know his name. Someone who he could fuck regularly.
What was I even offering beyond what I already just gave him?
The horror of that realization crushed me. It destroyed every shred of my confidence. I hated myself for being so stupid. I never should have given him so much of me that he could annihilate me so easily.
I was spiraling. I could feel myself coming apart at the seams when my phone chimed with his message.
“I already miss you so fucking much. Call me. I need to hear your voice getting home.”
Just like that, he shredded my fears. He wrapped me back up and held me — metaphorically speaking — and he never left.
He doesn’t ask me to give more than I can. He never judges me when I ask him to add one more thing to our list, no matter how deranged or weird it may be. He makes me laugh. He listens and comforts me, and I know if I text him right now and ask him to come to me, he would.
So, why not? Maybe this is the solution. Maybe this is how I’m supposed to get over Rhys once and for all.
Before I can second guess myself, before I can unfurl the mile long list of all the reasons why this is such a bad idea ... I send him the address.
“I don’t want to be without you for seven days,”I write.
I stow my phone away quickly into the side pocket of my duffle before the nagging voice at the back of my mind convinces me of what an idiot I’m being. I hook the strap over my shoulder and do a quick inventory.
The rest of my bags were already in my car. Mrs. Vega from across the hall has promised to watch my apartment and I’m not expected at work for the full seven days. I’m dressed comfortably for the four-hour drive in black flipflops, a black, plaited skirt and white camisole. I have my phone, wallet, credit cards, and eReader just in case; the contract recommended limiting our devices to a cell phone. Apparently the connection is spotty, but I never go anywhere without my books, especially not a remote cabin in the middle of nowhere.
I’m not going to lie, I was skeptical when Giselle, with her sultry voice, called to congratulate me on being the winner of an all-inclusive vacation. It sounded as scammy as all hell, but I’m not an idiot. I did my due diligence. I searched up Morning Glory, an all-women’s wellness organization specializing in yoga, meditation, and spiritual retreats. The meadow is owned by the company, and they do the raffle once a year to send one winner to the cabin to enjoy seven days of spiritual release and grounding. I even pulled up the previous eight winners on social media and made sure they were still alive — they are. As an added bonus, I sent a copy of the contract they emailed me to Oz, Mom’s amazing, brilliant and talented criminal attorney husband. Even he looked into the company just to be sure.
They’re legit and I’m not passing up the chance for release.
I don’t even care that I don’t remember entering the raffle. I don’t care if they got the wrong Adeline Broker. I’m going.
Sure, I’ve seen that movie, too. The one with the idiot girl wandering off into the woods alone to get away from whatever is happening in her life and winds up summoning a demon or getting chased through the wilderness by cannibals, but I’m okay with that. I’ve read Monster Smut. I know the way demons are built nowadays, and I haven’t been eaten by anyone in months. I’ll take what I can get.
I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder, take a final glance over the shoebox sized room and set off.
It’s balmy despite the chill we’re supposed to be getting. Autumn is taking its time tinting the leaves and the entire city is still basking in the harsh glow of radioactive sunlight that makes my eyes water as I jog to my black Subaru parked against the curb.
The bag is tossed into the backseat, and I take a few minutes to set the GPS on my phone. The coordinates I was emailed is a three-hour drive straight out of the city and deep into the wild. I add an extra hour for breaks and gas and estimate my arrival a little after one in the afternoon.
I text Mom quickly to let her know I’m heading out and she replies as I’m pulling into the morning traffic like she’s been sitting with her phone in hand waiting.
“Text me when you get there.”
I use the speech to text to send, “Will do. Love you.”
I initially jumped at the idea of her joining me. A week of just me and Mom would be heaven, but she and Oz are currently on vacation for their ten-year anniversary in a whole other country and I’m not making her fly back to go on vacation with me even though Oz is a saint and wouldn’t mind.
