Page 60 of Unconditionally Yours

I found the perfect vessel at the dollar store.

A gnome.

A horrible little bastard of a gnome.

Its proportions were wrong. Its eyes too wide. Its smile deranged. The paint was off-center like it had been applied during an earthquake or a breakdown or both.

It clutched a tiny spade like it was waiting to dig a hole.

For what, exactly? We don’t ask. We respect his silence.

I bought three. Just in case she’s the kind of woman who thinks a warning needs to be repeated. Or reinforced. Or franchised.

I leave my car at Benji’s house to avoid suspicion. No reason to give the Neighborhood Watch HOA whore any ammo. I’m trying to get out of the court system, not run a fucking residency there.

I crouch like a raccoon on a recon mission and gently place the gnome right in front of her door, angled just so. He’ll be the first thing she sees. Or trips on. I’m fine either way.

Beneath him, I slide a card. It’s tasteful. Cream cardstock. Embossed border. Just enough glitter to stain her soul permanently.

Inside, it says:

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, he’s not into you at all

Rhymes make threats worse. No ending punctuation. The lack of a period is menacing.

This is science.

I walk away calmly. With dignity. Like I didn’t just threaten violence with a garden statue.

Sticker heart.

Task Two: Complete.

My glitter-based threats have been deployed.

Let’s see if she bleeds sparkles when she cries.

Time’s slipping like lube in a baptism and I still have so many sacred duties to perform. Chad. Kira. Office Bitch. Rhys. And of course, the post-fingering thank-you note for Jett.

I wouldn’t want him to think I judged him for breaking so quickly. Or that I was the type to ghost after one orgasm. Because he may be, but I’m not rude. I was raised better than that, even if most of my manners are covered in glitter and expired lipstick.

Jett goes first. Not because I like him more. He’s just chronologically urgent. He’s still in Rhys’s office, probably repressing emotions and mentally cataloguing every time I’ve winked at his trauma. Sessions don’t last forever, though, and I can’t risk him coming out to find me mid-crafting.

The bag’s ready. Every item is handpicked, scented, blessed, and laced with emotional manipulation.

I park beside him, get out, and unclip his bag. My eyes land on the gloves. Black. Fingerless. Worn down and fraying at the seams like they’ve survived bar fights, blood oaths, and handjobs from demons.

He let me keep his hat. Technically. Lost his goddamn mind. In a biblical, “shove-my-fingers-in-you-until-you-weep” kind of way.

So really, the gloves? Practically begging to be claimed. Sex tokens. I take one like it’s a relic from a holy site and slide it on. It dwarfs my hand, but the effect is powerful. Wicked. Like I’ve borrowed just enough of him to be dangerous.

If the hat got me fingered in public, maybe this’ll earn me the full exorcism package. Wall sex. Mirror sex. A polite apology after. I’m manifesting.

One glove stays in the bag. The other stays on my hand. That feels fair.

Before I leave, I swing a leg over his bike, freshen my gloss, then lean forward and press a kiss to the painted reaper on his gas tank. My lip print blooms hot pink over the skull.

Sticker heart.