Prologue
I was six years old when I had my first taste of alcohol. It wasn’t on purpose really, but after seeing my father drink a twelve pack night after night, I wanted to know what all the fuss was about. It was gross. I remember spitting it out immediately and wondering what the hell my father was thinking. How can he drink this shit?
Not like my father was Dad of the Year or anything, but he was pretty decent when he was sober…which wasn’t very often.
Sadly, I can’t say much more about my mother. When she wasn’t sticking a needle into her arm, she was stripping to pay for it. Not that my father cared, as long as he got what he wanted—sex and booze—he was happy. But when he wasn’t…I knew to run.
Swearing was the norm in my household. Get me my fucking coffee or what the hell is wrong with you… It wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t good, either. My childhood taught me everything I needed to know—be unemotional, unattached and guarded—the keys to surviving on your own.
1
-20 years old-
Three years earlier
Thump, thump.
“Yes!”
“Come for me, baby,” he orders in between thrusts.
Is this guy for real?
“Come on, let me hear you,” he growls.
Does he ever shut up?
“Look at me. I want to see you when you come,” he purrs against my lips as our bodies smack together. I never look a guy in the eyes as my body’s about to rip in two. That’s way too intimate for me. And I don’t do intimate.
He continues to breathe heavily over me. It’s so not attractive.
“Oh, god. I’m so close. Come with me,” he growls again. “C’mon, beautiful.”
I roll my eyes. Okay, that’s it.
I slam my hand against his mouth to get him to zip it. It’s bad enough that the squeaking of his bed is distracting, I don’t need his dialogue.
I palm his mouth harder and clench my thighs around his firmness. “Oh god!” My body arches up as I scream out in ecstasy, releasing two orgasms in a row. It doesn’t take much to get me off, and I’m usually bored by the time the guy rips the condom off.
I’m not a total slut. I’m picky with my conquests. Plus, guys know from the get go I don’t do relationships. Or spoon. I never spoon. That’s way too intimate. If they can get me into bed on the first night, then that’s enough confirmation for me that they know what they’re signing up for.
The moment you let yourself slip into a relationship status of any kind, whether it be fuck buddies or casual sex, the feelings begin. The moment feelings become a part of sex is the moment hearts begin breaking. And that is exactly the reason I keep my distance. I get off, I make sure he gets off—sometimes—and I bail. It’s not a secret.
Most of the guys I hook up with don’t even remember any of it by the next morning because they’re too drunk, which is perfect for me. No cuddling. No awkward silences when grabbing my clothes and getting dressed. No awkward goodbyes. Get in. Get off. Get out. That’s my motto.
My best friend, Velaney, on the other hand, doesn’t do sex at all—even though she’s frickin’ gorgeous, works at a bar with hot guys hitting on her all night—she doesn’t do hookups. So when guys do the walk of shame in the morning, I can always count on her to shoo them out.
“Well, look who’s walking in at 8AM in the same clothes?” She scowls, holding two coffee mugs in her hand.
“Don’t even,” I huff, grabbing one of the mugs from her. I take a sip and inhale the bold scent.
“So what’s his name?” she asks with amusement. She knows my history, yet she taunts me whenever she can.
“I don’t know. Aaron, I think? Brad maybe?” I shrug, taking another sip of coffee.
“Yeah, those names sound nothing alike,” she quips, raising her eyebrows at me.
“Whatever. He was annoying. Wasn’t worth remembering his name.”
“How romantic. Remind me to put that on your wedding invitation.” She smirks.
“I can get his number for you if you want. He was pretty cute,” I say, placing my mug in the sink.
“Oh would you? I’m just dying for sloppy seconds!” she gushes, batting her eyes.
“Hey, beggars can’t be choosers,” I fire back, pointing a finger at her.
“I’m not begging, thank you very much,” she retorts in a distasteful tone.
I’ve known Velaney—I call her Laney—since we were babies. Our mothers gave birth in the same hospital only two days apart. We’ve practically been inseparable since. We both grew up in shitty homes, so as soon as we turned eighteen, we left and haven’t been home since.