Page 21 of The Toy Maker

I shook my head, and I could practically see the light bulb appear above her.

“Jade hand me a dick,” she instructed, and Jade obeyed. “See, what you do is—” Sarah’s instruction was cut off by the eight-inch dildo in her mouth. She still tried to explain the process, but it came out as slobbery, muffled words.

My eyes grew wider with every inch she devoured. “That cannot be healthy.”

Jade snorted. “She used to struggle with bulimia in high school. Pretty much has a non-existent gag reflex now.” A pang of sympathy echoed through my chest.

“We’re not all that gifted, though,” Kitty remarked.

Sarah pulled the dildo out of her throat with a smack of her lips. “Yeah, Kitty would choke on a baby carrot.” She grinned.

“I would not!” Kitty protested.

“Would too,” Sarah said, flipping the dildo end over end like a magician with a trick coin.

“Would not. Remember Tony Stewart?” Kitty’s voice cracked just a bit, like she regretted bringing him up the second his name left her mouth.

Sarah cackled. “That means nothing. He was the size of a milk dud.”

Kitty’s face turned the shade of a firetruck. “Fine, pass me the dick.”

Sarah handed it over like she was bestowing a sword to a knight, her expression half pride, half challenge. Kitty held it with both hands like it might explode, but to her credit, she didn’t back down.

I stood there, caught between horrified fascination and helpless laughter, watching these girls argue over their oral résumés like they were comparing job skills.

This was my life now.

And honestly? I didn’t hate it.

Jade whistled as Kitty stuffed the dildo into her mouth. “See?” She gargled and began to choke with the dick still lodged in her throat.

Death by dick, what a fulfilling way to go.

Sarah and Jade quickly removed the dildo in just enough time for Kitty to dump the contents of her stomach on the floor. I winced, my own gut retching at the sight.

I stared at the bottom of my wine glass as Jade helped Kitty off the floor and into the bathroom. My phone still hadn’t chimed or rung; it was time to call again. But I couldn’t do it here. Dad would have to wait.

“I’ve got to go, Sarah,” I slurred, the wine hitting me all at once as I stood too fast. My legs wobbled, and the room tilted slightly, like I was standing on the deck of a rocking boat.

Later, I’d wish Sarah had stopped me. Maybe told me I was too drunk to go anywhere. Maybe insisted I crash on the couch or forced me to chug some water. But instead, she just smiled, a little too relaxed herself, and said, “I’ll call you a cab.”

Minutes blurred into each other, and before I fully processed it, I was folding myself into the backseat of a cab, the vinyl sticking to my thighs. The driver didn’t say a word, which I appreciated.

I leaned my head against the cool window, the faint vibration of the road working its way up my spine, lulling me into a drowsy trance.

I should go home. I should call Dad. I should?—

Sleep clawed at me, pulling me toward a blackout that felt as inevitable as the hangover waiting for me on the other side.

But just as my eyelids started to flutter shut, a bolt of panic shot through me. My purse.

My hands pattedmy lap and the seat beside me,nothing. “Shit,” I muttered, brain stumbling through the night’s events, trying to remember where I’d left it. Pink Cherrie. It had to still be there.

Redirecting the cab driver while half-drunk felt like trying to solve a math equation underwater. My tongue fumbled over the address, the words sticking together, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if he understood me at all. But eventually, after some confused back-and-forth, he turned the car around.

With the first part of my mission accomplished, I leaned back and felt my eyes droop shut while the streetlamps blurred by.

TEN