Page 4 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)

TEX

The second I walk away from Mandy’s table, I feel like shit.

Not because I lied?—

Okay, yeah. Because I lied.

I told him I was going out with coworkers. Said I’d just have a Coke. As if that made it harmless. As if I didn’t know exactly what he saw. I could feel his eyes on me from across the damn room when I slipped that guy’s number in my sock. Could feel the disappointment radiating off him like heat.

He won’t say it. He never does.

Mandy’s all patience and quiet storms. He watches me like I’m something fragile, but he never pushes. Never demands the truth. Just that one ask: Text me when you’re home safe.

And the worst part is, I won’t.

Not because I’m trying to hurt him.

But because I can’t stand what I feel when I see his name light up my phone after I’ve let someone else touch me.

I shouldn’t need the attention. I know that.

Shouldn’t need the rush of being wanted for fifteen minutes in a stranger’s back seat.

Shouldn’t crave the validation that comes with fingers gripping my thighs and voices whispering God, you’re hot like it’s scripture.

But I do. I crave it like breath. Like drugs, back when that was the poison of choice.

Mandy’s different. He looks at me as if I’m important. More than just a willing hole. And that scares the hell out of me.

Because if I let him in, really in, he’ll see all of it. The mess. The rot. The hollow places I’ve filled with sex and charm and lies.

And worse?

He’ll stay.

He’ll try to love me anyway.

So I keep him at arm’s length. I bring him cake. I touch his shoulder. I smile like it’s just for him, because it is, but I never let him peel me open.

Not all the way.

Because if Mandy ever knew the truth, he’d stop looking at me like I’m someone worth saving.

And I don’t think I could survive that.

His name’s Rick. Or Ron. Something with an R. I didn’t really catch it—just caught the way his eyes dipped down my legs and lingered. The way he touched my wrist when I handed him his change, like we were already familiar.

His car smells like weed, cologne, and leather seats. The windows fog up fast. His hands are already under my shirt, tugging, fumbling, pinching my nipples. His breath—heavy with the smell of the beer I served him—is hot on my neck, too eager, too fast. My stomach churns.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he mutters, like it’s a script.

I smile for him. The practiced one. The one with just enough teeth to feel real. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

He laughs. Thinks I’m kidding. I climb onto his lap, straddling him like I’ve done this a thousand times, which I have. He moans when I grind down. I don’t. I don’t feel much of anything.

His hands go to my thighs, thumbs brushing the edge of my shorts, and for a second, I flash on Mandy—on the way his hand lingers too long when he brushes mine, the heat in his gaze, the reverence in his touch.

I swallow that thought like a pill stuck in the back of my dry throat. Bitter and chalky.

This guy doesn’t want me.

He wants the idea of me. The look. The packaging. The way I laugh at his jokes and tell him he’s got strong hands. He wants the show, and I know how to give it.

I arch my back. Moan just loud enough. He thinks he’s good at this. He probably is. But it’s not about him.

It’s about feeling wanted, even if it’s fake.

It’s about control, even if I’m the one being used.

It’s about proving, for one more night, that I still have something to offer. Something worth touching. Even if no one ever stays.

My mind goes numb, along with my body, and I drift.

Not out of the car. Not out of the moment. Just somewhere else.

Blue skies. Wide open fields. Wind against my face, the scent of grass and sun-drenched dirt. A tire swing turning in slow, lazy circles over the old pond behind the house.

Home.

I’m barefoot. Seven, maybe eight. No glitter, no lips curled in practiced flirtation. Just me. The real me, the quiet boy who hasn’t figured himself out yet. But more than that, he hasn’t learned how cruel people can be.

And then it slips away, like always.

Reality creeps back in through the fog. Rough fingers drag over my hip, hot breath ghosts my collarbone, some guy whispering God, that was amazing, like he means it. Pretending he’ll remember my name in the morning.

The only evidence that I jerked him off is the stickiness on my hand, but I don’t remember a thing. Rick/Ron reaches for my dick, and the cocoon of heat that carried me away a moment earlier unravels, leaving me feeling panicked and scared.

And filthy. So fucking filthy.

He tries to talk. “Let me do you now.” But the last thing I want to feel is his hand on my dick.

“I’m good. It’s getting late.”

“Hey, uh… You wanna hang out sometime? Grab a drink or?—?”

Fuck no. “I don’t really do that.”

He doesn’t want to hang out with me. He wants me to say I’ll be available if he calls again. My eyes dart around the interior, checking the windows, ready to escape. I feel like I’m suffocating, the car shrinking in on us.

I can’t breathe.

His expression shifts to surprise, then a flicker of annoyance. I’ve seen it before. They always want more right after they get enough.

I tuck my hair behind my ear, open the door, and climb out into the cool night air. The breeze is sharp against my legs, grounding me. I breathe in deep, like it might scrape the rest of him off me.

My phone buzzes, and without looking, I already know who it is.

Mandy:

You home yet?

My thumb hovers as I stare at the screen. I think about lying again. I think about sending nothing.

Instead, I slip the phone back into my pocket and start walking to my car.

Do I feel better now? Not even a little bit.

The hole’s still there, raw and aching, threatening to swallow me whole if I breathe too deeply. I knew it would be. It always is.

It’s not the touch. It’s not the exchange of sweat and praise and skin that fills the void just enough to keep going.

It’s the lead-up.

The game.

The chase.

The moment right before—the electricity in their eyes when they still think I’m something worth wanting. Before they touch me and find out I’m not. Before the disappointment creeps in, even if they don’t say it out loud.

That’s the part I feed on. The illusion. That little flicker of maybe.

And now it’s gone.

My legs feel weak. My stomach turns. I feel used, but only because I offered myself up for it. Again.

I take out my phone and stare at Mandy’s message like it might set me on fire. If only.

Mandy:

You home yet?

I could lie. I could ghost him. I could send a thumbs-up and let it mean nothing.

Instead, I type two words and hit send:

Not yet

Then I put the phone away and start the car. If I didn’t have a curfew to make, who knows where I’d end up.

Some stranger’s bed. A bar I shouldn’t be in. The bottom of a bottle I swore off two years ago.

Maybe that’s why I’ve stayed at Serenity House long after I could’ve moved on.

Because I need the structure, the rules, the curfews and sign-in sheets and random piss tests. I need the echo of someone else’s voice saying this is enough for today. I need a routine to keep me from spinning out.

To remind me I’m still trying. That I haven’t run out of chances yet to start fresh.

Even on nights like this, when I’m not sure that’s true.

I pull out onto the empty street, headlights cutting through the dark, and drive toward the only place that still pretends to be home.