Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Amazing.
His eyes drift open once or twice, which leaves me feeling buoyant. I’m similarly thrilled when I speak to Mom on the phone and find out it’s a ‘busy’ day at Ultra Mod/Hip Rehab, and she doesn’t have time to see me before I leave town.
It takes me an agonizing ten hours to drive to Vegas, but the driving is important. I have a lot to think about, and I need time to process it.
I’m really doing this. I’m really on my way to the Love Inc. ranch to sell my virginity.
I’ve dressed up. I’m wearing my new brown Armani slacks, the ones that make my butt look tight and perky, and a low-cut, sea blue wrap-around blouse that matches my eyes. I’ve pulled my dark hair into a playful up-do, and for once, I’m actually wearing lipstick. I feel sexy. Like a prize to be…well, bought.
For a few hours, my mind cycles through practical concerns, like whether I have enough lingerie, and what kind of man likes garters. Superficial thoughts, like what kind of lotion I should use on the big night, and whether I need to shower right before the bidding or if I’ll have time after.
Richard and I have agreed that I’ll get more money if I offer myself to the winner the night of the bidding. What will I feel like, lying on a stage under those glowing lights, with my face shadowed and steam rolling around my mostly naked body?
What if I’m still to pudgy? What if the winner doesn’t like having sex with me and wants a refund?
Will the escorts be nice?
The California hills flatten and the grass turns into sand. The air through my vents feels crisp and dry. I loosen up a little and my thoughts dip deeper—to Cross. It’s still so strange, the way things are now. He should be talking to me. He should be on a bike.
I have a strange and fleeting memory of the shape of Cross’s fingers, holding a pencil as he sketches. How, as a younger girl, I used to picture those hands when I thought about being fingered.
My eyes water as I think about his hair. How soft it was when it was long and dark and messy. How brilliant blue his eyes are. How they widened that night in the hall when I ran into him at Hunter’s party.
He was just trying to watch out for me, even if he was being a prick about it.
I go another round of wishing I’d acted differently. What the outcome would be. I think of Suri, secretly visiting Cross while he was at the county hospital. For how long? What were the logistics?
I try to imagine her sitting in that awful place, legs crossed, her curly brown hair pulled back, and everything about her radiating Suri; privileged Suri. I wonder if Cross felt safe when she sat there by him. I wonder if he felt loved when she pecked him on the forehead or smoothed his covers.
The sun climbs into the middle of the sky and starts to fall behind me. Cacti dot the barren land. For the longest time, I think of random things, like the Kenneth Cole cologne Cross wore in high school, which I loved so much. I remember Suri telling me one night when I slept over that if she turned thirty and she wasn’t married, she would marry Cross. At the time I was surprised. She’d acted nonchalant and shrugged. “I bet I would never get bored with Cross.”
I remember how Cross’s jackets used to smell when he put them around my shoulders: like pepper and mints and that Reaction cologne. Remembering a time when Cross lent me his jackets reminds me of being younger, and of course, I think of Mom. How she never had sex with my dad, and how I really wished I didn’t know that.
Thinking of Dad makes me think of Hunter. I remember a younger Hunter West, grinning, on his back, gliding underneath Mom’s Porsche. I remember his gorgeous golden hair. How, for years, I thought he was the consummate playboy, fucking wealthy, silk-robed women by the pool before the sun was fully up. I recall the glitter of his eyes as he looked up from Priscilla, on the fireplace, in the same room where he and I had...
I don’t know if it’s because it’s dusk and cool, or if it’s that thought that gets me, but I’m shivering. I feel naked, and I hate it.
In a few days I’m going to sell my body. I’ll strip naked and let a stranger inside me.
And it’s true, I don’t place much value on my virginity. For eons it was traded in exchange for land, cattle, power, whatever, so I know I’m in good company. I’m okay with that. But the idea of the act as a sensory experience—the knowledge that someone I won’t choose will invade my body... I guess I kind of hate that.