Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 48680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Now, bright and early at the crack of noon, I needed to haul my ass out of bed and get onto a train north, if I didn’t want to miss my chance at visiting hours today, my only day off.
I tug on my jeans as I flip open my laptop to check the train schedule, and suddenly there it is again. Staring me in the face.
Your profile has been created.
I highly doubt it's attracted any notice since I made it less than 24 hours ago—if it ever attracts any attention at all, a cynical part of my brain notes—but morbid curiosity makes me hit refresh.
Then I slowly sink into the couch, because my knees stop working.
372 notifications.
"Don't jump to conclusions, Bonnie," I mutter under my breath. That could mean anything, really. 372 guys might have made new profiles since I joined. They could be automated messages to let me know. Or just little notes like on social media profiles, nudging me to talk to someone or like someone else's photo to get started.
Really, could be anything.
But a little part of me knows, even before the notification page finishes loading, that it's not nothing. It's far from it.
Sure enough, the majority of the notifications are for messages sitting in my on-site inbox. Just a glance at the subject lines of those makes my stomach clench in a combination of fear and excitement, disbelief and a heady rush of relief. Because the subject lines all contain, for lack of a better term, bids.
"$15,000 for a taste of that sweet pussy," reads the first email, and they only get crazier from there. I scroll up slowly, not opening the emails themselves, not yet, because I'm not willing to even entertain that all of these are serious. They have to be pranks, right? Or if the guys are serious, they're probably serial killers or something secretly.
Shit, what the hell am I getting myself into?
But then one message in particular jumps out at me.
The numbers all around it have gotten seriously high, like, I would actually consider that high. Offers for $45-50k, just for one night with me, just for the opportunity to forever be labeled the first guy who got to deflower me. I can't decide if I'm flattered or nervous or turned on or freaked out or some combination of all four.
Part of my brain is already doing the mental math. $50,000 would pay for one of the three months Gram would need at the good nursing home. The really nice facility I toured with my cousin Cam, the only other one Gram still talks to, as she and I debated options. The one that has personalized one-on-one nurses and on-site rehab, the one where they looked at her charts and didn't sigh in despair, but patted my shoulder and told me she's a strong woman, they could make her better. Give her another ten to fifteen years, depending how hard she was willing to work in rehab. And knowing Gram, she'd work her ass off if it meant getting her independence back.
$50,000 could change our lives. Give her a fighting chance. Maybe even save her life.
But then my eyes skim past that offer, because I've noticed another one. One that couldn't possibly be real. One with one extra zero, I figure a typo, surely. There’s no other words in the subject line, no comment about my hot ass or my tight bod, or the way he wants to ruin me. But this sender didn’t need any other words. He gets his message across in numbers alone.
$500,000.
My brain doesn't even bother trying to daydream about that one. No freaking way.
Still, my fingers seem to be functioning independently from my cerebrum. They're already clicking open that message, and my eyes scan the first line.
Bonnie.
Shit, I think immediately. Why did I use my real name? I probably should not have put that kind of detail up on a website like this. Scratch that, definitely should not have. Oh god, I am going to wind up with so many stalkers.
But something makes me keep reading anyway.
Your offer piqued my interest. I'm sure you have heard from a lot of other men already, given what you have to offer, but trust me when I tell you: I know what I want when I see her. And I do not make offers like this lightly.
If you are serious about this, you can find me on Skype at the below address. By the way, I would advise creating a more convincing pseudonym for that site, Bonnie.
I'm torn between blushing bright red and glaring at the screen. What an asshole.
I mean, he's right. But seriously, can he get any more condescending?
Don't keep me waiting, he has the nerve to add at the bottom of the email, right above his signature line. P, is all it says. "Or is that even your real name, Mr. Get a Pseudonym?" I mutter. His Skype username is PiercingPine32, so maybe it's a play on that? Who knows.