Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“I’m just seeing how everything works,” she calls over to her mom. Katy’s voice is steady, with an undercurrent of confidence and a hint of nerves.
She returns to texting. My phone vibrates. Yeah, I see it. I’m standing at it now.
I know, I reply. Wave for the camera, Katy.
A gorgeous smile spreads across her face, from ear to ear. It turns her cheeks a beautiful shade of red. She’s so amazing, capable of smiling and acting carefree, considering what happened to her. It’s like the joy is bubbling up inside of her.
Without meaning to, I imagine other people, smaller products of her and me, with that same smile. Our future children are beaming because they never had to kill, risk death, or wonder if they were loved. They never had to hear or see the things I did.
She raises her hand, waving slowly. Did you get that? she texts a moment later.
Yes. I’m getting those jeans, too.
I send it before I can remember how inappropriate it is. This is the turning point, her chance to freak out and stop this before it begins. Instead, she does her lip-biting thing again, one arm folded across her middle.
“Is anybody hungry?” Eli says, his voice dignified and croaky. “I had an appetite to create an appetite, and now I’ve succeeded.”
“I can rustle something up,” Katy says, walking into the kitchen.
Do I imagine it, or is she moving her hips from side to side exaggeratedly, as if she wants to draw attention to that plump ass of hers?
What about my jeans?
You know what, I reply.
She looks up at the camera. This is why I’m in public. I can tell myself I did it so I’d be close if there were any problems, but that’s bullshit. This is the reason.
So I can’t grab my hard dick and start rubbing it, staring at the big globes of her ass trapped in all that denim.
CHAPTER 10
Katy
I wonder what it says about our mother-daughter relationship that I feel guilty about bringing this topic up with Mom. Eli has made us some lunch, and Mom and I are sitting at the table together. Mom nibbles at the scrambled egg, seeming uninterested in her food, staring at the plate like she wishes it was loaded with her fix instead.
Eli is eating in his room. “A mood has stricken me down miserable,” he declared before leaving.
I want to talk to Mom about men. As sad as it might be, she’s one of the only people I can have a conversation like this with. I want to know if I should let myself be steamy with Sam. Deep down, I think I know the answer. Thinking about it logically, I shouldn’t do anything until I’ve felt his touch and smoothed my hand down his rock-hard body.
I shouldn’t let myself fantasize about sending steamy texts, rubbing my pussy as he strokes his cock. What if he isn’t who he’s pretending to be? But this apartment is real.
“Are you okay, Katy?” Mom asks.
She says it in an almost worried tone. It’s not like she’s worried about me, exactly, but more like she’s concerned that she’s done something to upset me. It’s a tone I’ve heard countless times, which is why I can read it. Sometimes, I wonder if I leap to this conclusion too quickly and am too keen to make her a victim.
I’m fine, I almost say. That would be my usual response. Instead, I place my fork down. “I…” How can I say this without outright telling her I’m talking about Sam? Am I really about to pull this trick? “I’m thinking about something a friend told me recently.”
Right away, her eyes narrow. “What friend?” she asks.
What a sad state of affairs it is when Mom gets instantly suspicious of me making friends. It’s even sadder that her suspicion is entirely justified. If I was in the mood for an argument, I could shoot back, The only reason I don’t have friends is because of you, but that would get us nowhere.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell her.
“No…” Mom sighs and brushes a shaky hand through her hair. While she’s withdrawing probably isn’t the best time to talk about this. But when will be a good time to talk to my own mother? Never? “Tell me. I’m sorry. I want to hear.”
“It’s just something she said about a person she matched with on Tinder.”
“On what?”
I can’t help but laugh. When I see Mom smile, a smile touches my lips, too. There’s always a shade of gloom when we share moments like these. It reminds me of all the moments we could’ve shared if Dad hadn’t passed and Mom hadn’t collapsed into her addiction.
“You really haven’t heard of Tinder?” I ask.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Probably not. It’s a dating app. My friend is talking with a man twice her age.”