Mmm. A delicious soreness lingers between my thighs and despite the beating my poor pussy took last night, I find myself spreading my legs again when Liam wakes me up with his searching fingertips. One digit enters my dripping core and my back arches off the bed.
My state of bliss is interrupted when I notice a stream of light sneaking behind the blackout curtains over the windows. I sit up and search the dark room for a clock and come up short.
My one night stand moves his hand up my body, a sexy moan pouring from his lips as he palms my heavy breast. “Good morning.”
I sit up, my heart racing in my chest. What time is it?
I never sleep over after sex. Hell, I pride myself on that fact. I don’t want to be mistaken for a clingy one night stand who hangs around, not getting the hint.
I stretch as I finally ask, “What time is it?” My voice comes out raspy, making it sound sexy which, for once, I’m not aiming for.
“Quarter to eight.” Fuck.
“I have to go.” My mom is going to kill me. Not that I’m scared of her or give a rat’s ass about my appointment, but if I don’t go to therapy, my ass has to do community service thanks to my affinity for fights. Whatever, the bitch deserved it. But now I have to return to treatment, the lesser of all evils. My lawyer was good enough to get an assault charge knocked down, but couldn’t get me out of fucking therapy.
Then again, my parents have been forcing me into therapy my entire life, so nothing has really changed. This time it’s a new court-appointed therapist, but the doctor will still probably be a joke. I haven’t been cured in the last five years; I’m sure I won’t be cured overnight by this guy.
If I don’t show up on time, I’m toast and my appointment is at ten. Not only that, but my mom is driving me. Apparently, she doesn’t trust me to show up on my own and she claims sitting in my best friends’ apartment and bitching about life isn’t as effective as a licensed medical professional. Gag me.
I scramble out of bed and pull my dress from last night back over my head before heading out of the bedroom to find my shoes. I pick them up and carry them like I’m the fucking textbook definition of a walk of shame. Then again, I never cared before, so why start now?
Finding my purse, I dig around until I find my phone and scroll through my contacts. My phone is pressed to my ear as I stride toward Liam’s front door. “Come on, answer,” I mutter.
“Do you need me to drive you home?” Nothing says bottom of the barrel quite like your one night stand pity-offering you a ride to get the fuck out of his place.
“Nope.” I end the call and immediately hit redial.
“About last night—”
I put up my hand. “Save it. It was fun. You surely know how to fuck. Thanks for the orgasms, see you never.” I’m out the door before he can respond and thank fuck Cara answers.
“Can I fucking help you?”
“Good morning to you too, Sunshine. I need you to pick me up. I’ll drop a pin to my location and explain everything as soon as you get here.”
“No shit. You finally did it, didn’t you? You broke your own rule. You spent the night.” I can hear her snarky grin through the phone and it’s too damn loud for this hour.
“Shut up. And hurry.” I hang up before she can decline.
When she pulls up outside of Liam’s place, she looks at me over her sunglasses. “Get in, bitch.” I slam the door as she peels away. “Couldn’t you have just called an Uber?”
“Yeah, but the Uber driver wouldn’t give a shit about the dirty, phenomenal sex I had last night.” I fill her in on all the explicit details and the God who gave me more orgasms than I can count.
“Are you going to see him again?”
I scoff, though, for the first time, I wish I would see one of my hookups again.
We don’t have time to shoot the shit any longer once Cara pulls up to my house. I bolt through the gate to the pool house where my room is.
While I’m in the shower scrubbing off the scent of stale sex, my mother’s screech permeates my peaceful shower.
“Flynn Amelia Fletcher if your ass is not in the car in the next ten minutes, I will personally drive you to the courthouse and get you fitted for an orange jumpsuit. Chop chop.”
Times like this I wish I opted to go to college, and one that is far, far away.
Four
Flynn
My mother is not a bad person. If I were emotionally stable enough to admit it, I’d say she was a damn good mom for putting up with my shit, my brother’s shit, and my sister, the college drop-out who was practically a teen mom. Given the three of us, she’s done her best. She never hit us and only offered tough love when necessary.
That didn’t stop me from raising hell at every opportunity or getting kicked out of school or getting caught with alcohol and drugs on more than one occasion.
Hence my extensive history with therapy.
Everyone wants to fix me, but maybe I like being broken.
This therapist, Dr. Whitmore, apparently specializes in young adults with behavioral and substance abuse issues. That’s my label anyway.
As if specializing in a topic will allow him an intimate understanding of the workings of my brain. He doesn’t know me or why I’m
