Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Using my hand to shield the afternoon sunshine drifting through the surrounding buildings, I read over the metallic sign precariously hung over the doorway. The G-Spot.
Other than the name and the blacked-out windows, it was a nondescript storefront tucked between a sandwich shop and a Dollar Deals store.
I glanced at Margot as she dug through her purse. “Moral support? You needed moral support to go into a sex shop?”
“Johnny Depth dropped in to do a surprise signing today. I nearly shit myself when I got the VIP Insider email from his fan club.” She pulled out her lipstick and a compact, applying a fresh coat of bright pink to her lips.
“You brought me to see Mr. Everlasting Gobstopper? Margot, there is no way I can look at the guy without thinking of Oompah Loompas and chocolate tubes.”
“Chocolate starfish,” she said, smiling as she reached for the door.
“Why do you need moral support for this?”
“What if I faint?”
I followed her inside the sex shop, where silicone phalluses of all sizes and colors adorned the walls, along with an assortment of anal beads, furry handcuffs, and crops. To the far side hung a plethora of crotchless outfits and very familiar-looking lace thongs.
“You have a store loyalty card to this place, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
A line of dildo-clutching women stretched across the small store. I turned to look at Margot just as she pulled a veiny, flesh-colored dick from her purse. That was the second time in two weeks she’d produced a dildo from her bag.
“Do you just walk around with artificial dicks on you at all times?”
“No. Don’t be ridiculous.” She readjusted her purse strap, nearly whacking me in the face with the engorged head of her sex toy. “I brought this for Johnny to sign.”
I stared at her.
She looked at me like she couldn’t understand why I was confused. “It’s a cast of his penis, Blake. It only makes sense for him to sign his cockcast.”
My gaze drifted back over the line of women, all with dildoes matching Margot’s. And at the very front of the line stood a dark-headed Johnny Depth, his arm around a woman clutching his cockcast in her hand and smiling for the camera.
This was weird.
Margot headed toward the back of the line. I begrudgingly followed her, pausing halfway down the aisle to snap a picture of a curly pigtail anal plug, which I promptly sent to Vance.
Do I want to know why you are looking at those?
It’s not for me…
Bubbles danced across the screen. Stopped. Started again. Stopped.
Is this you trying to get me back for the condoms in the pharmacie?
Guess we’ll find out when you get back to NYC.
To each their own, but you are not shoving a butt plug in my ass.
I felt that was a necessary disclosure before I texted that I miss you.
Something warm had bloomed in my chest every time he’d send that.
I miss you, too.
Can’t wait to see you Friday.
It would be three and a half more days before he came home. And to my lovesick heart, that seemed like forever.
I tucked my phone inside my purse, grabbed the pigtailed butt plug, a piggy mask, and a set of purple anal beads from the shelf then went to stand beside Margot.
She glanced down at the toys. “So, Vance is into role-playing?” She waggled her red brows.
“No. He’s not.” I shook the butt toys. “This is my engagement gift to Kate.”
Margot grinned. “She’ll completely lose it. Pretend prude.”
She would. I could just imagine her opening the perfectly wrapped gift and pulling it out for all of Bon Apple Tea to see. She’d probably chuck it across the room. Jimbo’s face would most likely turn puce, and I’d delight in the carnage like the slightly horrible person I’d accepted I was.
Outside of the nightly sext exchanges between Vance and me—and I mean, on my end, they were really terrible—the rest of that week was complete crap.
Wednesday, I’d gone home to a repaired ceiling. But the excitement was short-lived, thanks to the mountain of cat shit all over my living room and bedspread.
A worker had evidently left a window cracked, which Matilda, my neighbor’s youngest cat, had found when she’d scaled the ledge between our apartments. She’d climbed through, shit all over the sofa and my bed, and shredded my curtains by the time I’d come home.
Thursday, Kate had texted. Repeatedly. Asking for an RSVP.
I replied that it would be me plus one. And that, no, the plus one was not Margot.
Her response:
I’m glad you’ve finally moved on from Jimbo.
Glad I’d moved on from Jimbo? Gratitude from the sister he’d fucked to force me to move on. I didn’t give two naked backward flips about Jimbo at that point, but the audacity… I’d had to push up from my desk at work, hightail it to the employee bathroom, and turn on the hand dryer just so I could scream.