Page 22 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

Not just any sex, either. Some mind-boggling, leg-numbing, earth-shattering sex.

The moment she fantasized about for years was finally over —she actually managed to get laid before being laid to rest. A scoff of laughter rips from Alana and she runs a hand through her short coils. There used to be times when she’d rack her brain over how it’d feel to finally have sex. How she’d feel. Whether there’d be some cosmic shift that would fundamentally alter who she was as a person. Yet, there isn’t. There’s no magical transformation into a newer, better version of herself. She’s still the bakery owner, the best friend, the granddaughter, just with a little more life experience.

The realization brings several emotions she can’t place. There’s a buzz beneath the surface of her skin, and her heartbeat thumps so erratically in her chest that she worries it’ll overwork itself.

The thing she’s waited so long for has finally happened, and it’s so exciting that she could practically squeal, but there’s something else lurking behind the shadows of her excitement.

It’s neither odium nor guilt nor pride. But it sits on her sternum, heavy and uncompromising. Alana brings her knees to her chest and chews her nail.

Will this change what people thought about her? She detests that the thought even surfaces. Detests the fear of her grandmother’s opinions when she knows it shouldn’t matter. Because it really, really shouldn’t. But in a small way, it does.

What will she think when she finds out? Will their relationship change? Who’s to say Nana’s favoritism would survive this? She might easily be the next victim of family gossip, name and personal business dragged through the mud like all the cousins before her— the family good girl title effectively lost. Alana picks at her skin.

She isn’t a bad person for this, regardless of whatever grown-ass people try to convince her otherwise. She’s not less pure or less of a woman now that she’s had someone’s dick inside of her. She isn’t damaged, or broken, or used.

She’s just…Alana.

Alana, who fucks.

As though smiting her for the lewd thoughts, a violent crack of lightning splits across the sky, thunder booming right after. Alana flinches, and her attention snaps to the windows. Rain cascades in heavy sheets, a foggy, grey, haze stretching for miles. The balcony door is still open, allowing a warm breeze to flow through the curtains. Her rattled nerves calm with the scent of the wet leaves, and cedar, and soil.

Another rumble of thunder sounds, and with it, a vibration from across the room. Alana’s discarded purse lights up from the inside. Hugging the sheets to her naked frame, she steps out of bed, where cold concrete sends a shiver from the base of her feet to straight up her spine. It’s a game of lava trying to circumvent the chill as she tiptoes onto the small area rug, but once she’s close enough, she snatches the bag by the strap. She rummages through the random pens and lip gloss and unused condoms until she finds what she needs.

Three unread messages, two missed calls.

A frown tugs at Alana’s features. Just as her thumb swipes across her call list, her phone vibrates again.

Nana.

Gods, this woman had universal timing. Dread immediately pools in her stomach, and her shaking thumb hovers over the decline symbol. Does she know? She has that freaky third sense. She knows, and she’s calling to tell me I’m a hussy and that she’s writing me out of the will.

Biting her bottom lip, Alana paces with a free hand, scratching at the nape of her neck.

Relax. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

At the last second, she answers, straightening her posture. “Morning, Nana.”

“Morning, Lana girl,” the woman greets. She sounds light for once. Cheery. That’s good. Means no one’s irked her spirit today. Which also means she can’t possibly know Alana got her shit rocked last night.

“Sorry I missed your calls. I had a lot going on last night, so I was kind of…occupied.”

Nana’s voice travels off as she bids goodbye to someone. She shouts something that Alana can’t quite catch, and laughter rattles in the background. When she returns, there’s a smile in her voice. “Mhm, that’s what I like to hear. My girl’s been working hard, I’m sure,” she coos. “I don’t want to keep you, but I’m just leaving church and was going to head out to the market to get things prepped for your cake. Do you know what flavor you want?”

The corner of Alana’s mouth lifts with a smile, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. The memories she has of Nana aren’t all religious indoctrination and issues of self-confidence. There are fond ones too. Ones she’s held dear to her heart. Making her birthday cake every year is one of Alana’s favorites. She hopes this won’t be the last year she’ll be able to enjoy it.

“Your red velvet will always be my go-to.”

“Then red velvet it will be.”

Alana returns to the bed and leans against the headboard, watching the storm sway Cyrus’ curtains. “Thanks, Nana,” she says. “Can’t wait to see you.”

“Can’t wait to see you either, baby.” The muffled background voices fade, and keys jingle as she turns the ignition in her car. “You sound good, by the way. I know you mentioned being a bit busy lately. But you sound more relaxed than I’ve heard from you in a while.”

“I do?” Alana rubs the back of her neck and looks down at herself, all battered, naked, and bruised. “I have been trying to implement more, um, self-care. I guess it’s working.”

“Seems like it, dear. Well, I won’t keep you. See you soon.” When the phone clicks, Alana drags a hand down her face. She’ll never be able to face that woman after this. Her thoughts are interrupted by another flash of lightning illuminating the sky. Thunder echoes, violent enough to shake the room, and the sound of glass shattering turns her attention to the bedroom door.

“Cyrus?”