Текст книги "Nice Girls Don't Ride"

Автор книги: Roni Loren

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Chapter 10

Natalie

I must be delirious from no sleep and great sex because as Monroe rides away, I kind of want to cry. And call him back. And tell him yes. But even though I know I’m going to make some changes in my life, I can’t imagine that going on a three-month road trip with a guy I met less than twenty-four hours ago is a wise idea.

What if, by week two, we hate each other?

What if last night was a fluke?

What if . . . it’s amazing?

I put my hand over my eyes at the last thought. Shut up, Nat. Get some sleep and get it together. This is not an option. Maybe I can just tell Monroe to look me up when he gets back in town, and we can see if our chemistry really means something more than a one-nighter.

I dig my keys out of my purse and head toward the front door, praying that the asshole formerly known as my boyfriend is curled up with the skank. I can’t handle him right now. But, of course, when I walk in, he’s on the couch in the living room like some overbearing parent waiting on the rebellious teenager to come home.

He gives me the up-and-down look, taking in my wrinkled dress and bare feet. “Seriously?”

For some reason, I find this comical. I want to laugh. I want to sing that P!nk song about the walk of shame. Something about looking like a hot-ass mess and wearing last night’s dress. I’m walking, I’m walking. I snort.

“Are you drunk?” he asks, his lip curling in disgust. “If that guy got you hammered and—”

“Shut up, Caleb.” I drop my shoes by the door. “I’m not drunk. I’m tired and want to go to my room without having to deal with you.”

He inhales slowly and releases a God-grant-me-the-patience sigh, pushing to his feet. “Fine, you’re right. That didn’t come out the way I wanted. I’m here to apologize. Any mistakes you made last night were my fault. I drove you to it.”

“Oh, how big of you,” I say, heavy on the sarcasm, low on the patience. “But the only mistake I made was not realizing how much of an asshole you are sooner. Anything that happened after that was far from a mistake. Best. Night. Ever.”

The expression on his face goes tight as he stalks over to me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and attempts a sincere look. “Listen. Nothing happened with Rebecca. After you left last night, I brought her home. Let’s talk about this. We can work on things.”

I shrug out of his grasp. “You think I care what you did or didn’t do with Rebecca? You two can have each other. Go wake her up for a morning fuck. I don’t care.”

His lips part. He’s probably shocked that I cursed. I usually keep that in check around him. He thinks it’s unladylike. “What did that guy do to you? I don’t even recognize you.”

I shake my head with a bitter laugh. “You never did, Caleb. That’s the problem. And what that guy did to me is none of your business.” I push up on my toes and get close to his ear. “But it was fucking fantastic.”

And with that, I stroll past him into my bedroom and shove the door closed behind me.

The reflection in my dresser mirror greets me from across the room.

I don’t recognize that rumpled, confident, smiling person either.

Hello, Me. Meet the new girl.

Chapter 11

Monroe

“Is that all of it?” my brother asks, tossing a duffel bag in the back of the van.

I check the clock on my phone. Not for the first time. “Yeah, all I’ve got left is hooking up the trailer for my bike.”

Will braces his hand on the roof of the van and leans in. “You did a damn good job on this, little bro. Though, you should’ve kept the blue shag carpeted walls. That shit was awesome.”

“No fucking way. I would’ve felt like I was sleeping inside of Cookie Monster.”

He snorts and pushes off the van. “You got all the food out of the fridge?”

“Yeah, there’s a box of stuff from the pantry on the counter. Take what you want and ditch the rest. You sure you don’t mind keeping an eye on the place?”

“I’ve got it covered. No worries.”

“Cool.” The house is the one we grew up in, so I know he knows all its quirks and the things that could come up.

He closes the rear door and turns to me, arms crossed, that I-am-the-all-powerful-all-knowing-big-brother look on his face. “What’s with you? You’ve been talking about this trip nonstop for the last few months and now you look like you’re on the way to a funeral.”

I shrug. But the move feels stiff, forced. “I’m fine. Just didn’t get a lot of sleep. I’ll be good once I get some caffeine.”

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t push me on it. “I’ll take care of hitching up the trailer. You go inside and make sure you didn’t forget anything.”

I tuck my phone in my pocket and go back into the house, knowing I need to get my head out of my ass. I have three months ahead of me. No obligations. No work. And a different view every day. Being in a shitty mood because a girl isn’t as insane as I am is pointless. I know what I’m doing is out there. And the fact that I asked a near stranger to come with me probably makes me certifiable. So why should I be surprised that she isn’t on board?

God. I’ve turned into one of those Hey, Girl memes everyone’s always posting on Facebook. Hey, Girl. Get in my van. I’ll show you the country while I feed you delicacies from greasy spoons.

Lame.

No wonder Natalie bailed.

I wander through each room, checking and double-checking everything, then grab my backpack. Enough of this crap mood. I just need to get on the road and put all this drama in my rearview. Hanging around is only making it worse.

I step outside, closing the door behind me, and am happy to see the trailer all hooked up and my bike already on it. Excellent. Time to roll.

I look for Will, but he’s no longer in the garage. Voices drift from behind me, and I turn around. My brother is laughing about something. I set my backpack down and step around the front of the van. At the end of the driveway I see my brother. And a girl.

My girl.

Something inside me loosens.

She came.

Chapter 12

Natalie

The expression on his face is all I need to know. I came here with a bag packed but my mind not one hundred percent made up. This whole thing still feels crazy and reckless and has high potential for being a disaster. But ever since Monroe dropped me off that morning after my birthday night, I haven’t been able to think of much else.

I told my mom that I’d visit her sometime this summer but that I won’t be moving back in. It felt liberating.

And when I’d gotten that obligation off my summer agenda, I’d tried to make other plans. I’d looked for apartments. I’d skimmed through job ads online. But over and over again, I found my mind drifting to eating cupcakes under strings of lights and making out by the lake and riding a motorcycle with my eyes wide open. And Monroe. Always back to Monroe with his pretty eyes and badass tattoos and pig parts T-shirt. The guy who wasn’t going to let life sail by without him. The guy who chased bluebirds.

And so last night, I’d found myself packing a bag, putting in things a girl needs for a long road trip and camping and long walks on the beach. I’d even bought a new bikini.

But still, I haven’t been sure until right this moment, looking up and seeing his smile—the genuine joy on that too-handsome face. He’s been waiting for me.

He strolls down the driveway, and I lose track of what the older Hawkins is saying. Monroe stops a few paces from us, tucking his hands in his back pockets. “Hey.”

I feel a goofy-ass smile lifting my lips, and I can’t stop it. “Hey.”

“You’re here.”

“Apparently, I’ve lost my mind.”

He laughs. “Perfect. Sanity is overrated.”

The brother’s eyebrows disappear beneath his hairline, and he jabs a thumb toward the house. “I, uh, will go lock up. Nice meeting you, Natalie.”

“Same here. Thanks again for the discount on the car stuff.”

“No problem.” He pats Monroe’s shoulder as he passes him, and there’s a look exchanged between the brothers.

I have a feeling I’ve been given some stamp of approval.

Monroe moves closer, his hands slipping out of his pockets. “So . . . you have a bag.”

“I do. Is this still an open invitation or did you pick up some other girl off the side of the road to replace me already?”

He smirks. “That invitation was only for you, princess. Of course, if there’s not a skimpy bikini in that bag, then the deal’s off.”

“Will you settle for slightly skimpy?”

“Done.” He wraps me into a bear hug and kisses me soundly. “I can’t believe you’re actually here. And I can’t believe you waited until five minutes to seven to show up. Way to make a guy sweat.”

I laugh, a weird giddiness rising in me, like I’m filled up with champagne bubbles. “My sane side put up a good fight.”

“And then your crazy side decided I’m just way too good in bed to pass up.”

“Exactly.”

“Damn, Nat, I’m so freaking happy you’re here.” He kisses me again. “I can’t even be cool about it.”

I grin. “I know exactly how you feel. But listen, if we’re really going to do this, we need to set some ground rules first.”

He sets me down and puts on a serious face. “Okay. You’re right. There are probably things we should know about each other since we’re going to be trapped in small spaces together for a long time.”

“Right. I’ll go first.” I step back a little but keep my hands on his chest because I have this need to touch him after denying myself the privilege the last few days. “For road trips, I require beef jerky and Twizzlers at all times. And I have very high standards for public bathrooms, so I get to make the call on where we make pit stops. And I have an affinity for weird tourist attractions so plan on National Lampoon’s Vacation–style detours.”

“Like the largest ball of twine and shit?”

I nod, my tone grave. “Exactly.”

“I can work with that. Now my turn. Let’s get the biggest bomb out of the way first. I am a relentless morning person.”

I grimace. Ugh, mornings. “I’ll take that into consideration as long as you don’t expect me to be a morning person.”

“And I’m a complete control freak about driving—worst backseat driver ever.”

“I happily cede my feminist right to be behind the wheel.”

“We will go to restaurants that look like dives, but I promise you I’ve done my research and it will be worth it. And I will sometimes be completely annoying with my opinion on the food.”

“Understandable.”

“Also, I have more than one pig T-shirt.”

“I have more than one Justin Timberlake concert T-shirt.”

He puts a fist over his heart like I’ve stabbed him. “I think I’m out.”

I shove his shoulder. “Shut up. But, seriously, we should probably cover that, too. Music could be a deal breaker. That’s a lot of hours on the road.”

He grabs my hands and laces his fingers with mine. “Yes, this is serious. Here goes. Our fate lies in this. I hate hip-hop, techno, and modern country. I can tolerate some pop and like hard rock. Old-school country is good sometimes.” He bows his head. “And I have a deep, completely un-ironic love for eighties metal.”

I snort. “Seriously?”

“Yes, it’s true. Even the hair bands. My dad raised me on that stuff. Are you cutting me loose now?”

I use our linked hands to pull him against me. “You’re really lucky you’re good in bed because that . . . that’s just appalling.”

“You will learn to love it. I promise.”

“I’ll make you a deal. For every one of those songs I have to listen to, I will subject you to Katy Perry or Taylor Swift.”

“I accept this deal.”

He guides my arms around his waist, and I bury my face in his T-shirt. “God, Monroe. This could turn into such a disaster.”

His hands slide into my hair and he tips my face upward. His blue eyes are clear and earnest. “This is going to be amazing.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because you’re so good in bed.”

I roll my eyes. “Right.”

“It’s going to be amazing”—he takes one of my hands and puts it over his heart, right where his tattoo is—“because we’re chasing our bluebirds, Nat. And nothing feels better than that.”

I swallow hard. “Think we’ll catch them?”

He lowers his face, a breath away from mine, his palms cupping my jaw. “Yeah, I think we will.”

And then he kisses me, and any doubts I have left are lost in the rush of emotions.

This feels good.

This feels right.

This feels . . . like happy.

I may have even heard a bird sing.

Epilogue

Natalie

I close my eyes and listen to the rise and fall of the waves, the quiet roar of the ocean so much a part of me now that soon my breaths are matching the beat. In and out. In and out. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. My late summer soundtrack.

I may never be able to sleep again without that sound.

“How’s the inspiration break coming?”

The voice behind me brings a smile to my face. I open my eyes and roll over. It’s dark out, but the porch light from the beach house gives off just enough of a glow for me to see the outline of Monroe heading toward me in the sand in only a pair of board shorts.

“I wrote for a while then needed a break and started a letter to my mom instead.”

Monroe plops down next to me in the sand and leans over to kiss me. Comfortable. Familiar. Effortless. That’s how we are with each other these days. “Yeah? How’d that go?”

I prop up on my elbow. It’s still a little strange to be talking openly about my mom and her problems. Usually, I do my best to not let anyone know where I came from and all the problems in my family. But I’ve spent endless hours with Monroe. On the road. In our tent. And for the last few weeks, in his friend’s beach house. And everything has been talked about at some point. He’s amazingly easy to talk to. We even made a brief stop in Oklahoma for me to check in on my mom.

Monroe, of course, insisted on being introduced. I thought I’d die of embarrassment when he saw the beat-up trailer we called home and met my mom, who was clearly one too many pain pills past her limit for the day. But he’d been kind to her and hadn’t given any signs that he was disgusted by anything. Even when Mom pulled me aside and told me none-too-quietly, “What is wrong with you, Nattie? That’s the kind of boy who will use you up and leave you on your ass, little girl. Don’t you be stupid like me and fall for a pretty face. And you better be on the pill because I’m not raising some baby for you.”

I’d almost laughed at that. Like I’d ever let her near a kid. But when I had walked into the next room and realized Monroe had heard the whole exchange, I’d wanted to fall into a crack in the floor. He pretended like he hadn’t heard, but I knew he had.

So when we got back on the road after the three-day visit, I’d felt more than a little strung out and ashamed. But Monroe hadn’t let me get away with my moping. He’d driven us straight to a place that served the “Best Banana Splits in the South” (according to the sign) and fed me ice cream (that did turn out to be pretty damn good). And when we settled in later that night, he’d pulled me into his arms, kissed me, and told me, “You, Natalie Bourne, are an amazing girl. I’m sorry that your mom has too many of her own problems to see that, but know that I see it. And the rest of the world will see it. You are not that past.”

I’d cried. And he’d let me get all snotty all over his sleeve.

Then when I got control of myself, he’d added, “And we would so not let her raise our baby.”

That had made me laugh. And after that, I hadn’t felt any fear about telling Monroe anything at all.

I shift on my elbow, trying to sit up a little more, but the sand beneath the blanket is fighting me. “Still a work in progress. How’s your mission for the ultimate crab bisque?”

His expression sours. “I can’t get the texture right with this batch. It’s too thin. But I think I’ve nailed the seasonings down. I could go get you a bowl if you want to—”

“No.” I hold up my palm. “Seriously, I love you, but one more bowl and you’re going to cream of mushroom me like your mom did to you. I’ll never be able to eat crab again.”

I’m smiling, but I realize I’ve made some mistake when his playful expression goes slack and he just stares at me.

I quickly rewind what I said in my head, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Did I hurt his feelings about the soup? He can’t think that– Oh, shit. Now it hits me. I realize what I’ve let slip out. The L word.

That’s not at all what I meant to say. Even if it’s the truth.

“Nat . . .”

I put my hand to my mouth and sit up. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“You didn’t what? Didn’t mean it?”

“I didn’t—” I shake my head. I’m not going to lie. That’s not fair. “I didn’t mean to say it.”

“But did you mean it?”

“Monroe—”

“Because I so fucking love you back,” he says, taking my hand.

Now it’s my turn to gawk like an idiot. “Wait, what? You do?”

I feel like I might throw up. In a good way.

He laughs, sounding more than a little relieved. “Of course I do. Can’t you tell? You think this is still one big, long hook-up?”

“I—I don’t know. I wasn’t sure—”

“Then be sure now, Nat,” he says, kissing my knuckles and meeting my eyes. “I’m completely stupid over you. Like, losing-my-mind into you.”

I can’t even speak.

“And now it looks like I’ve freaked you out.”

I stare at him a moment longer. Then I tackle him.

We crash into the sand, and I kiss him with everything I’ve got. I’m not even sure I’m landing my mouth in the right places. I’m murmuring I love you, love you, love you in between. Hands go everywhere and soon we’ve moved from yay-we-love-each-other making out to something more urgent.

His hand slips under the neck-tie of my bikini top, and the string slides free of the knot. My body goes hot and the waves seem to increase in volume. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Or maybe it’s blood rushing through my ears. His kisses trail down to my breasts, my nipples hardening in the night air and begging for his mouth. We’ve never done this, not on the beach.

But it’s a private beach for residents, and it’s late and dark. I haven’t seen anyone out here for at least two hours. And right now, I kind of don’t care if we’re seen. It’s too good to want to stop.

Monroe rolls me beneath him, putting me back on the blanket I’d been sitting on, and kisses down my body. We’re moving fast and frantic, but it feels so right. When he reaches the apex of my thighs, he runs his tongue along the outside of my bathing suit, the heat of his touch burning through the thin material like a firebrand. I make a desperate sound and angle my hips upward without conscious effort. His finger plays at the edge of my bikini bottoms and he looks up at me. “Trust me?”

I know if I say I’d rather move it inside, we will and he won’t mind. But I don’t want to. I want to be with him on this beach where we’ve spent so much time together. I want to taste the salt-laced air and hear the ocean as he moves inside me, as we make love. But then a practical thought gives me pause. “Condom?”

He smiles. “I have one in my pocket. Call me hopeful.”

Relief moves through me. “Then I don’t want to be anywhere but here.”

And that is as true a statement as I’ve ever made. Here . . . is perfect.

He kisses my hip and eases my bottoms down. The warm breeze coming off the ocean is like a caress to every naked spot on my body. Everywhere Monroe has kissed lights with awareness. And then he’s over me and pushing my hair off my face, looking at me in a way that says he loves me more than words ever could.

I don’t want to cry. I want to hold on to this moment and not have it be filled with tears. He runs his hand along my thigh and opens me to him. We’ve spent so many nights together this summer, but when he pushes inside me, it feels new all over again.

He touches his forehead to mine and smiles that bad-boy smile of his. “Want me to give you a ride, princess?”

I wrap my arms around him, loving the weight of him against me, the scent of him, the feeling of being so completely his. “Nah, I think I’ll just wait for Autoland. You look like trouble.”

“Oh, I most definitely am.” He sinks deep inside me and his lips brush my ear. “And so are you. Sweet, perfect trouble.”

Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next Loving on the Edge novel

CALL ON ME

Coming July 2015 from Berkley Books!

Chapter 1

“Are you touching yourself?” The voice in Oakley’s ear sounded labored and overeager—like a Saint Bernard attempting phone sex. He was probably drooling, too. Lovely.

“Yes, you make me so hot”—she quickly checked the sticky note she’d put on the kitchen island—“Stefan.”

Stefan. Literature professor. Single. Six foot five.

That was the info he’d given her. Which probably meant: Steve, unemployed, married, and five-six on a good day.

He groaned. “You’re so sexy.”

Sexy? Two points off for lack of originality, Mr. Lit Prof. Though even the suave guys tended to forget their vocabulary when they got to this point in the conversation. Oakley covered the mouthpiece on her headset and turned off the timer on the oven. If nothing else, she was impressed the guy had lasted through the full baking time.

“Thanks, sugar,” she said, letting her tone drop into a lower register.

“God, your voice is so fucking hot.”

That she heard a lot. A record company exec had once deemed her voice “smoky, X-rated perfection” when he’d heard her demo. At the time, she hadn’t considered how inappropriate it’d been for a grown man to tell a fifteen-year-old kid that. But her raspy voice had gotten her the gig then, and it’d gotten her this one now. Though, admittedly, the bar wasn’t set quite as high for this current one.

“I’m gonna give it to you so hard, Sasha,” Stefan ground out. “I can feel your hot mouth closing around me.”

Oakley donned oven mitts and leaned down to pull out the tray of brownies. The smell of chocolate and the heat of the oven hit her with full force. She inhaled deeply. “Mmm, that’s so good. I could just lick up every last bit.”

“Yeah,” he panted, the sound of his slick, pumping fist obscenely clear through the receiver. “That’s right. Show me how much you want it.”

There you go, Steve, you go on and get your money’s worth. Oakley set the tray of brownies on a trivet and tugged off the mitts. Her stomach rumbled. She’d stayed up late enough that her body was looking for dinner number two. But these weren’t for her.

She glanced toward the darkened hallway and the stairs beyond. Well, maybe one little corner piece wouldn’t be missed. She cut a small square and dipped her fingers in to grab it. But as she lifted the brownie, her knuckles grazed the searing hot pan.

“Ah, shit!” she hissed, jerking her hand back.

“Oh, yeah, let me hear it,” Stefan said on a moan. “Come with me, baby.”

Oakley shook out her hand, sucking air through her teeth, and tried to keep the pain out of her voice. Her phone companion thought she was mid-orgasm. She threw in an oh, oh, oh and ran to the sink to plunge her fist into the dishwater she’d drawn to soak the mixing bowl.

Stefan made choked sounds as he reached his own release. In another world, maybe it could’ve been an erotic moment. She’d talked a guy into an orgasm. He was calling her name. But the name was fake and so was the talk. And though she held nothing against the guys who called—they helped her pay the bills—her libido had long ago crawled into a dark corner to die a peaceful death. Even if she imagined the guy on the other end of the line looked like Johnny Depp or Justin Timberlake or something, she couldn’t drum up one ounce of interest.

Stefan panted heavy, wet breaths right against her ear, resuming his resemblance to a Saint Bernard. Maybe she should offer him a “good boy” or a Milk-Bone.

“That was amazing,” she said, using her husky, after-sex voice as she soaked her hand in the water. “Thank you, Stefan.”

Panting. Panting. That was the only response.

Then a tight, high sound—whistling.

No. Wheezing.

Uh-oh. “Stefan? Are you okay?”

Those squeaking breaths continued for a few seconds, then: “Yes . . . I’m . . . fine.”

He didn’t sound fine. “Stefan, if you’re having an asthma attack or chest pains or something, you need to call for help.”

“Can’t . . .” He gave a ragged cough. “My wife . . . can’t know . . . I’m down here this late. She’ll know I’m up . . .”

He coughed again.

Jesus Christ. Oakley shook the water off her hand. “What’s she going to think when she finds you dead in the basement? Hang up the phone and dial 911.”

“I—”

“Stu?” a sharp voice said in the background. “What are you doing down here? Stu?”

“Oh, shit,” Stefan/Stu said between wheezes.

The dial tone buzzed in Oakley’s ear a second later.

She pulled off the wireless headset and sagged against the fridge, exhaling a long breath. Okay. It would be all right. Stu’s wife might kill him when she found him with the phone to his ear and his underwear around his ankles, but at least the guy wouldn’t die of a heart attack on Oakley’s watch.

She could handle a lot of stuff—callers threw all kinds of bizarre shit at her—but she couldn’t be responsible for helping kill one. It was bad enough that she’d just contributed to strife in another marriage.

Gold star for her.

It shouldn’t bother her. The guys who called were grown men making a conscious decision to seek out paid phone sex. She was simply the tool of choice. Another night, they might download porn and watch a dirty movie instead. If she’d learned anything during her year of doing this job, it was that it wasn’t personal. She had a job to do. The callers needed a faceless someone to fill in for their fantasy that night. The relationship was purely transactional. And hell, she’d been used for free by enough men in her past. Now she was at least paid for it and not getting emotionally annihilated in the process. But, still, sometimes she felt like the drug dealer, giving addicts easy access to their vice.

She rolled her shoulders, trying to shrug off the stress of the call, and dug a tube of antibiotic ointment out of the junk drawer to slather on her burned knuckles. It was past two and she really needed to get to bed, but there was no way she’d be able to sleep after that burst of adrenaline from the call.

Plus, she’d never gotten her dessert. And right now, she could use a big honking piece of chocolate.

She went back to the brownies. They’d cooled enough by now, so she cut herself a bigger square than the original corner she’d planned and took a bite. She closed her eyes. Yeah, that’s the stuff.

After pouring a big glass of milk, she brought that and the rest of the brownie to the table. She glanced at the walkie-talkie she’d placed on the table, the soft white noise relaxing her, and leaned back in the chair to enjoy the solitude. She was used to pulling the night shift by now, but usually she fell into bed after the last call, grasping for any shreds of sleep she could get before the alarm went off to start her real job. But it was nice to sit for a moment and simply be.

She polished off the last bit of brownie and milk and brought her glass to the sink. The exhaustion was settling in full force now. She braced her hands on the edge of the counter and eyed the soaking dishes. Her mother had always had the rule to never go to bed with a dirty sink—as if a bright, gleaming, empty sink was some sign of how together the household was. Maybe it was.

Oakley turned away from the dishes. They’d have to wait until tomorrow. She didn’t have it in her.

She put plastic wrap over the rest of the brownies and grabbed the walkie-talkie and her headset. She should be able to get at least four hours of sleep. But right as she flipped off the light, the walkie-talkie beeped.

“Mom?”

Oakley halted, startled by the sudden voice in the quiet. She pressed the button on the side of the device. “Yeah, baby?”

“What’s that smell?” Reagan asked, her voice groggy from sleep.

Oakley shook her head and smiled. She should’ve known the bionic nose would pick up that scent even in her sleep. “It’s just the brownies for your bake sale tomorrow.”

“It’s not my bake sale. It’s the school’s,” Reagan corrected.

“That’s what I meant.”

“But that’s not what you said.”

Oakley leaned against the wall in the hallway. This was an argument she’d never win. Reagan was into exactness. “I’m sorry I said it wrong the first time. Now go back to sleep, sweetheart. I don’t want you to be tired in the morning.”

“Did you put nuts or caramel in them?”

“Of course not. I know you’re a brownie purist.”

“Okay. Good,” Reagan said, and Oakley could almost hear her daughter nodding. “Thanks, Mom. Love you.”

Oakley pressed the walkie-talkie to her chest for a moment, warmth filling her. “Love you, too, Rae. Good night.”

Oakley headed to her bedroom, listening to the footfalls upstairs and the flush of the toilet as Reagan made a quick trip to the bathroom. She must’ve really had to go because Rae hated getting out of bed in the middle of the night. And she outright refused to come downstairs after dark because there weren’t enough places for night lights.

Hence the walkie-talkies. Oakley had gotten tired of Reagan yelling from afar anytime she needed something at night. And leaving every light blazing through the house all evening wasn’t an option either. The electric bill was already high enough.

Bills. No, she wouldn’t think about that now. Even though she could see the stack staring at her from her desk. The gas bill. Rent. The quarterly installment for Reagan’s private school and therapies. She couldn’t face that tonight. Plus, she knew the due dates by heart so she could hold on to her money until the very last minute without being late.

She closed her bedroom door and walked over to her computer to wake the screen. Her sign-in page for the service she used to get her calls was still up. It showed how many minutes she’d logged tonight. Not bad. But she was six minutes shy of hitting the bonus level where she got an extra fifty bucks for the night. Stu’s health scare had cost her more than stress.

She sighed and sagged into her desk chair. Fifty extra dollars could pay for that pair of lime green Chuck Taylors Reagan wanted for her birthday.

Oakley yawned and checked the box that indicated she was available to take a call. Her cell phone rang within seconds and she slipped on the headset again. “Hello, this is Sasha. Ready for a fantasy night?”

“So ready,” said the deep-voiced caller. There was male tittering in the background.