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We don't talk about that one.
“Oh, Mum, the stories I could tell you…” The conversation flows, then suspends, as we finish our breakfast, and then we each go our separate ways, with me purchasing the tickets to the show. Now, only to find a way to get out of dinner with the Prime Minister.
My timing isjustright, when I hear my bedroom door open, I stick my fingers into the back of my throat, wiggling them around until I find that sweet spot.
My eyes begin to water, and I retch, loudly, until I heave my lunch out. An old practice I haven’t done in a while since my little bulimia stunt in secondary where I just wanted to be sleek and thin. But all it did was make me go to hospital, my hair brittle and my skin pale and blotchy. I’ve resorted to counting calories and carb cycling since then along with jogging every other morning, only allowing myself one cupcake. But what can a girl do? A fluffy little cake with frosting on top? So many delicious little opportunities in the palm of your hand. Also, when they're done up just right, they're pleasing to the eye. I've hadcupcakes I've almost cried over while devouring because they were adorable.
Sure, I like other sweets, but cupcakes are just… well, they're little pieces of heaven and I don't hate myself afterwards for indulging.
“Oh, darling! Are you alright?” Mum says, kneeling behind me to rub smooth circles on my back.
I groan, wiping the vomit on the tips of my fingers on my Lululemon’s. “No. I don’t think I’ll be able to make your dinner party tonight.” I sigh, wiping my tears from my face with my clean hand, making sure to sound extra sorrowful, I add, “I’m so sorry, Mum. I really wanted to be there.”
“Dreadful way to spend your evening but alright. I’ll have to let Derek know. He was so excited you were coming with us.”
“Please apologize for me,” I reply with a hoarse voice. I hate vomiting but, well, this was necessary if I'm getting to that venue.
“Of course, dear.” She says as I lean over the pale pink porcelain sink and begin brushing my teeth.
I spend the next few hours in bed. When I hear my mother call out a farewell from downstairs and the front door shut, I get up and go to my bedroom door.
Opening it, I find Parker, my super-hot, ten years older than me, watchdog.
Shit. I forgot about him.
He turns to face me, so neat and proper, from his dark blonde brows to his chin, the man is impeccably groomed. He looks like he stepped out of a Vogue magazine in his Oscar De La Renta black uniform suit and pristine white dress shirt. He’s been my guard since Raven’s accident, my mother not wanting me to be or go anywhere alone for more than a minute.
“Miss Winters,” he greets with a southern drawl. How my mother found him, I'll never know.The way he says my name always makes the bottom of my skull tingle. My clit too, and that irks me. The man should not be this handsome. God, he just oozes‘I fuck with precision’vibes.
Also, I’m pretty sure he hates me.
Then again, he has caught me in plenty ofcompromisingpositions before.
“Don’t you know you’re off the clock? I’m sick. Go away,” I order.
“No. Your mother pays me to watch you and so watch I shall,” he rumbles but it sounds like a purr.
Dammit.Why does he have to be so hot? Even the scar on his face doesn’t take away from how unnecessarily gorgeous he is.
I huff out a breath. “Okay then, make yourself a useful little guard” I make a shooing motion with my fingers, “and get Patty, please. I’ve run out of menstrual items and forgot my Diva Cup in the States. Could you have her go and pick up tampons and the overnight-size pads with wings? I like the kind that are minty. Nothing better than a fresh pussy.”
He curls his lips in either disgust or annoyance, possibly both. “She’s gone for the evening.”
I know. Which is why I’m a bloody mastermind. “Then you should go get them for me,” I say between clenched teeth.
“No,” he sneers.
“You’ll have me bleed on my silk sheets? They’ll come out of your wages. I can’t exactly lay in my blood all night. Think of the smell. The yeast infection. I could get bacterial vaginosis and then be put on so many antibiotics. Oh my god, poor Thomas when he has to launder the sheets! It’ll look like a crime scene straight out of a true crime documentary.” I cry out as dramatically as I can, each thing worse than the last.I know, I’m awful.
“Shut your flapping jaws,” he growls. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Do not move. Do not step out of this room. I will know if you do.”
Highly unlikely. But that growl of his does send chills up my spine and out through my hardened nipples. “Thank you, Parker. You’re much too good for me.”
Twenty minutes isperfect.
Because in that short time span, I’ve manifested my inner Raven and dressed up like an absolute scene-girl knockout, complete with sparkly hot pink fishnets, combat boots, and a harness over my black mesh shirt and hot pink bra. I smirk at my reflection before kissing the mirror. Raven would be proud.
I sneak out, having called an Uber and I’m at the venue in fifteen.