I wanted to head right to Dani and Cara’s place, but I can’t tell them about Liam anyway and they’d smell sex on me a mile away. I park my expensive car in front of my parents’ huge home and I realize just how privileged I am. Yet, in ways, the thought angers me.
We haven’t always lived this way. My parents work for every dime they make. I grew up in a small home, sharing a room with Carson when we were much younger. Things changed, but people’s perception of me has remained the same.
I’m just a young, hot, rich girl.
I keep cycling back to the question weighing me down: why the fuck am I so angry all of the time? Why am I afraid of commitment when my parents are still in love after a million years together? Why can’t I feel normal, whatever that is?
I’ve barely talked to my siblings for the majority of my life and I don’t even know why. Carson should be the angry one with how much shit the universe has put her through. But no, she’s happily married with a daughter, a niece I hardly know.
My brother is even engaged to a goody-two-shoes. My stoner older brother is a freaking teacher for Christ’s sake. Terrifying. Yet, he’s happy and his life is on track.
But me? I’m fucking my therapist. If that doesn’t say how screwed up I am, what will? Christian Grey better watch out. I’m coming for his title of fifty shades of fucked up.
The saddest part is, if you told me a year ago I’d be screwing me therapist, I wouldn’t even be surprised. I’d probably high-five myself and brag to all of my friends.
Yeah, you already did that, my subconscious reminds me. In part, I am who I am and I shouldn’t have to change. But also, I’m affecting the lives of others around me. I’m endangering people. I’m not a kid anymore and I should take some personal responsibility. But…how? The concept is foreign and uncomfortable.
A knock on my window pulls me from my mental spiral.
“Sweetheart, are you okay? You’ve been sitting out here for a while letting your car run.” I push the button on my car to turn it off and step out. “Come in here before you head to your room.” I follow my mom inside with an eye roll.
I know I should be easier on her because she’s only worried about me, and for good reason. Still, the two of us have always bumped heads and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. “What’s up?”
“Our invitations came today.” She’s sing-songy, so thrilled that I wouldn’t be surprised to see a rainbow coming out of her Pilates-toned ass.
She hands me a thick envelope with my name written in calligraphy across the front. Ms. Flynn Fletcher + Guest. I open the envelope and am assaulted by a gray and blush colored invite stating a September 1st wedding. It’s only a few weeks away, which I would’ve remembered if I paid any attention to the save the date I threw in the trash the minute I opened it.
“I assume you’ll bring one of your girlfriends, unless you’re back together with that guy you were seeing? What was his name? David or something? He seemed to really care about you at Carson’s wedding.”
“No, Damon is so far out of the picture he’s barely in this stratosphere. I’ll figure it out.”
I walk through the house to go out the back doors to my room in the pool house. I debate asking Dani or Cara to be my wedding date, but I have eight weeks to go. I’m sure something better will come along. It’s not like I’ll still be fucking my therapist in eight weeks, I’m sure.
I still message them, but it’s to fill them in on what happened after I left Bottomless. Or, well, to tell them the fake version of events. I say Liam dumped me. Cara suggests getting over him by getting under someone else, which used to be my life motto, but now I have to think of another bullshit lie to work around that. I decide to worry about that later. For now, I send off one last text.
Flynn: When can I see you next?
Liam: Soon.
Eleven
Flynn
I can’t stop picturing Liam’s cock driving in and out of me. The timing isn’t exactly ideal considering we’re in the middle of a session. I promised him I’d cooperate and we’d keep therapy separate from sex.
I’m an adult with a history of commitment issues—why does the first time I yearn for a relationship have to be with my fucking therapist? It’s something I’m sure will come up and then we’ll have to discuss it. I can’t fucking wait for that session, insert eye roll here.
“Flynn, you seem lost in thought. Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking about since it seems to be your primary focus?” Hell. No. We’re not talking about it today. No fucking way.
“Do you really want to know?” I give him a pointed look, but he has his metaphorical therapist hat on and he doesn’t read between the lines.
“Of course. I need to know, Flynn. It’s my job and I need and want you to be completely honest with me.” His pen hovers above his yellow legal pad, ready to jot down my miraculous revelation.
You asked for it. “I’m thinking about how your cock feels when it drives into me. I’m trying here, really,
