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It was so tempting to go into Byron’s booth when I reached the head of the line. I would have loved the chance at a private chat with him and to ask how God felt about him stealing money from me.
But I stepped aside and whispered to the man behind me. “I’m not quite ready. You go.”
He nodded and made his way to the left, disappearing inside.
I waited for the woman in Zeph’s confessional to leave and then slipped inside myself. I closed the door behind me, shutting us in together. “Hey.”
The little peephole between us slid open. “Lyric?”
“Yeah. It’s me.”
“What’s wrong?” His voice was slightly panicked, his gazed flickering all over my face.
“So much.” I sighed heavily, leaning back on the hard wooden seat. “My grandmother is in the hospital—Peggy said she’s going to be okay, but I need to get up there soon. And I screwed up Amelia’s interview with that fancy-ass school. But I’ve got it all under control. Truly.”
He wasn’t letting me off that easy. “You’re upset.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted on autopilot.
His knuckles cracked, but he didn’t say anything.
I glanced over at him. “You mad at me?”
He still said nothing, but I could tell just from his eyes that he was.
I sighed. “Join the club, then. I’m pretty mad at myself too.” Mad because I hadn’t been there when Gran needed me. Mad at Kat and Lleyton. Mad because I let them get to me. Mad because I couldn’t see a future that was any different from the present I was currently living. It was all just more of the same. My nights spent at the club, dancing for creepy old pervs like Byron, while my days were long and lonely and exhausting. “Seriously, Zeph. This is confession. You’re supposed to say how you feel. So tell me.”
“You aren’t taking care of yourself. You never do.”
I shrugged. “I do what I have to do to survive.”
He paused for a moment. “I googled CNC.”
I was sure my eyebrows shot right off my face. Not only that he’d googled it, but that he would bring it up here, of all places. But perhaps this really was the place to confess what was on your mind. And frankly, talking about sex was a whole lot easier than talking about any of my actual problems. “And?”
His voice dipped an octave until it was so deliciously deep I felt it inside me. “I learned more about what sorts of things can go in a contract. We need one.”
I cocked my head to one side. “Agreed. What do you want in your contract?”
I expected him to defer to me, but he surprised me by having an answer ready. “That you look after yourself.”
I frowned. “Explain what you mean by that. Because if you’re being one of those alpha assholes on TikTok who like to carry on like they can’t get it up for a woman who works out less than five hours a day, we’re going to have a problem.”
His eyebrows furrowed in. “What? No. That’s not what I meant. I meant you run yourself ragged and take care of everyone but yourself. You’re all sass and attitude to everyone, but it hides the fact you’ve always had to fend for yourself.”
Despite the fact there was a partition between us, I’d never felt more seen. “I’m not sure that’s exactly what they meant by a contract. I think it’s supposed to be more like hard lines set out in writing.”
“What’s your hard line, Lyric?”
A tingle of anticipation lit up inside me. “You can take me by surprise, but I don’t want to be truly scared of you. I can act it, if that’s what you need, but if you jump out at me, I just need to hear your voice. I need to know it’s you.”
“What else?”
“That’s all.”
“There’s got to be other limits, Lyric.”
I said nothing.
