Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
But even as I think it, it doesn't feel real. The images of that future are watery in my mind.
I hear the shop doorbell ring, and the door slam closed as Kyla leaves.
I don't want her to go. I want to wrap my arms around her and tell her that everything will be alright. I want to be the kind of man who doesn't retreat inside himself whenever there's trouble. But I'm not. And Kyla's better off without me.
34
KYLA
Crying is stupid. It doesn’t achieve anything except make me blotchy and smudge my mascara in a very unattractive way. I can’t even hold it in until I get home, so I have to suffer the indignity of passers-by shooting me sympathetic looks as I try to stifle my sobs.
I’m an idiot.
An absolutely huge, gargantuan, monolithic idiot for letting myself imagine that the men at Ink Factor see me as anything more than a colleague they’ve all fucked. I’m an idiot for thinking that the way they kissed me and touched me when we were all together was anything more than the final part of a game.
I agreed to the terms of the game. I agreed to all of it and told myself that I wouldn’t let my heart get involved. It was about living in the moment and discovering things about myself that I didn’t know. It was about shrugging off some of the shackles of my past.
But who was I kidding?
The men of Ink Factor are not men you can turn into fuck buddies without risking your heart. They’re too awesome, too funny, too caring, and too hot. They’ve looked out for me through the process and made every moment that we were together feel special.
And in the process, I’ve lost my heart.
And not just to one of them.
To all eight of them.
This game was supposed to make things clearer to me. It was supposed to help me work out what kind of man I want so that dating in the future would be less about stumbling into a relationship and more about me only accepting the kind of love that I want. Instead, rather than settling on one type of man who would be my Mr. Right, I’m not stuck with feeling that all eight of them are perfect for me.
Before Nash’s date, I could never have truly comprehended what a relationship like Luna’s could be like. The girls of the Reverse Harem Ladies Club all seem so happy and content in their poly relationships, and I guess a small part of me was starting to wonder if it could happen for me too.
I’m so stupid to take Luna’s flippant comments and start to create a fantasy life out of them.
I’m so stupid to look at my eight colleagues and imagine that they could ever be happy with just one woman.
Forget one woman. That they could ever be happy with just me.
Who the fuck do I think I am?
I’m no supermodel. I’m not special enough to gather a harem around me. I’m not the kind of woman with the strength of character to be a queen bee amongst so many kings.
Because they are.
They’re kings, and all I should ever have hoped for is that I could get to worship at their feet just once.
And that’s what I got. Well, twice, really.
And now it’s all over.
The way Carl spoke to me tells me everything about my status for the men of Ink factor now. They all threw their names into the bowl, had their fun, and now the respect has gone. Before we fucked, there was a mutual understanding between us. Now, Carl’s treating me like I’m nothing and the rest of them are avoiding me. I know the game is over, but they haven’t sent me a single message. Not even a smiley faced emoji, or something short to check how I am.
Carl’s discarding me. They all are.
And I don’t think I can take it.
My heart has been bruised too many times before.
It’s been ripped out of my chest, and I’ve had to take my time to put it back and try to heal it, and now it feels torn all over again.
When I’m home, I take a washcloth and clean my face, but it’s only a temporary fix. The tears fall again, and this time, I don’t have a reason to stifle them.
In my comfy pajamas, I slump onto the sofa and sob my heart out. I try to push away all the amazing memories I’ve made with the eight men of Ink Factor. I convince myself that all their tenderness and care was just part of the game and nothing more. I tell myself that I shouldn’t feel hurt. They’re not doing anything wrong. Not really. If my expectations were of something bigger than they promised, then my disappointment is my own fault.