SWNOVELS A Photo Finish: Chapter 8
YESTERDAY HE STOPPED RESPONDING after I turned down his offer for . . . whatever he does. Watches you masturbate while he calls all the shots?
Sounds bizarre. Then why are you squeezing your thighs together just thinking about it?
How does he even know he’ll be attracted to me? Or I him? Why would anyone do this with a stranger? Is this guy really some sort of orgasm magician?
I pull my phone out, determined to get to the bottom of this.
Pretty_in_Purple: Why does anyone sign up for this arrangement?
I throw my phone down on my bed and get dressed for the morning, trying to work out why I’m so fixated on figuring this out when it has no bearing on me. It’s not like I’m going to do it.
When my phone buzzes, I practically throw myself across the bed to grab it. Smooth.
Golddigger85: Still thinking about me, huh?
Pretty_in_Purple: What if I’m a total butterface?
Golddigger85: Butterface?
I roll my eyes. Who doesn’t know that saying?
Pretty_in_Purple: But-her-face. You liked my picture, but what if I’m a total butterface?
Golddigger85: I wouldn’t expect you to show me your face.
Pretty_in_Purple: Okay, Captain Literal. What if you’re a total butterface? Maybe faces matter to me. I don’t think I’d like showing the goods to some nameless, faceless person on the internet.
Golddigger85: Are you sure about that?
Arousal zings through me, pinging around in my pelvis as I imagine myself doing what he’s asking. Touching myself on camera. What would his voice sound like? A shiver runs down my spine as my thumbs hover over the screen of my phone. I’m not sure, but I’ll never tell him that. I’m just sex-starved. That’s all.
Pretty_in_Purple: Yes.
Dots roll across the screen as he types back, and then a photo pops up on the screen. A selfie.
Golddigger85: Okay, what about now?
I tap the photo and take in the manicured dark scruff on the man’s perfectly square jaw. He’s wearing a hat that shadows the top half of his face, obscuring what sits above his straight, pronounced nose. I can’t even see the color of his eyes, no matter how close I zoom in. It’s dim wherever he is and almost looks like a basement or something.
Probably where he keeps all the bodies.
As I zoom back out, my eyes snag on his mouth, almost a little too shapely for the strength of his other features. He has nice lips, that perfect bow shape on the top one. And as I let my fingers fall away, I realize he has lots of nice other stuff too, because he’s not wearing a shirt. A strong neck, with a pronounced Adam’s apple. Big round shoulders, the bulge of one bicep visible where his arm is outstretched holding the phone. The shot cuts off before I can get farther down his chest, but I can see the sprinkling of hair and a line between his pectorals.
My mouth goes a little dry. Golddigger is cut. And suddenly I feel awkward. Flustered. So, I deflect, just like I did when my brothers would start inquiring about boyfriends.
Pretty_in_Purple: Even a butterface looks good in a hat.
Golddigger85: You saying I look good?
I exit the app quickly and shove it in the back pocket of my jeans.
That’s not a question I want to answer.
“OKAY, SPILL.” Billie leans forward, shoulders to her ears, with a mischievous look on her face. “What’s it like living with the beast?”
Billie and Vaughn live in a cottage on the opposite side of the property, and it is the epitome of cozy. Open concept, exposed wood, big loft bedroom. It’s small and simple, but they love it, and it suits them perfectly. Plus, there’s a paddock right out the door where she can keep her horse, DD, close by. He’s fine. The fall stung him, and he was a little jumpy afterwards, but he’s healthy—thank God. Billie says he’s not racing until I’m ready to go again, so we’ll make up for lost time then even if it means running races closer together than we might otherwise. In the interim, he’s happily enjoying some down time and training with his favorite rider, Billie.
I can’t hold a candle to what the two of them have. I’m just lucky he lets me hang on for the ride now and then and that Billie is way too tall to be a jockey.
She’s been harassing me about coming over all week. She plied me with wine, and now we’re on glass number three. And this is why. I finally gave in because it’s Friday, and I’m bored of reading the steamy romance novels she left on my front porch. And now this is what I get.
I roll my eyes and mutter, “Snoopy bitch.” She just laughs, and I ask, “Does that make me Belle?”
“I don’t know. Are you going to have a snowball fight and fall in love with the big brute?” She cackles like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world, and I try not to cringe. If you’d asked me that same question a year ago, I’d have sighed like a lovesick teenager and gone on dreaming about meeting Golddigger85 one day. I was so certain I was special to him, not just another girl he met on the internet, or I never would have taken it that far. Cheek-burning levels of far.
So, imagine my surprise when he reminded me I was just that. My heart aches more at the memory than I like to admit. He hurt me, and it was all my doing. I asked for more than he could give.
I shake my head and take a sip of the red wine Billie poured for me, tucking my mixed feelings down behind the big crystal bell. Hopefully.
“I’ve barely seen him all week. He works long hours. And I have nothing to do, so it’s not like I wake up early.”
“That’s not true. You came and hung out at the barn with me a few days.”
“In a chair with my leg propped up on a bucket. Where I was forced to watch everyone else have fun while I sulked on the sidelines.”
Now it’s Billie’s turn to roll her eyes. “Think of it this way. You’re one quarter of the way through your recovery. That’s not so bad!”
I glare back at her, where she’s curled into the corner of the big plushy couch opposite me, legs tucked underneath herself, looking comfortable and carefree. I’ve been trying to put my best foot forward, to stay positive, but I must confess . . . I’m floundering. I’m bored. I’m sad. And I’m feeling a little resentful—angry, maybe. This was supposed to be my season to prove myself.
“You okay, Vi?” The skin between Billie’s brows pinches together.
My breath rushes out of my body on a huge sigh. “Yeah.”
She’s not buying it. “What’s wrong?”
I don’t want to stress Billie out. I don’t want her to worry about me, and she’s such a mother hen that I know she will. “Nothing,” I say, pasting a fake smile on my face.
She stares at me, hard. I hate it when she does this. It’s like she’s digging through my brain without permission. “Did Cole do something?”
I look down and snort as I trail my index finger around the rim of my wine glass.
“Violet,” she whines, “are you ever going to tell me what’s up with you guys? I’m trying to be a grown-up about it, but it’s literally killing me. Being a grown-up is really hard.”
My eyebrow pops up skeptically. “You look fine to me.”
She groans and looks up at the wood-beam ceiling. I roll my lips together again, weighing my options. I could talk about Cole, or I could talk about my intense level of sadness and disappointment and probably start crying. For once, talking about Cole feels preferable.
I take a big swig of my wine. Liquid courage.
“Okay, Cole and I met on the internet.”
She hunkers down, leaning forward slightly, like a little kid getting ready to listen to a campfire story.
“On a . . . uhm . . . ” Oh god, saying this out loud is harder than I thought.
“Dating website?” she prods.
I almost laugh. The thought of Cole on a dating website. “No, more of a . . . uhm, forum?”
“Okaayyy.” Billie looks confused now and my cheeks heat.
I just blurt it out and get it over with. “A forum where people post nudes,” I say quickly, before shoving my wine glass in my face again.
Her brows knit together. “Cole posts nudes on the internet? If he weren’t my future brother-in-law, I wouldn’t be averse to see—”
“No, I did.”
Billie’s feline eyes bulge out as she chokes on her mouthful of wine. With one hand across her chest, she gasps for breath. “You?”
I nod.
“My sweet little Vi?”
I go beet red. Head to toe, I’m sure. I hear a click but can’t look away from Billie.
“You posted naked pictures of yourself . . . on the internet?”
And somehow, because I have the worst luck in the world, this is the moment that Vaughn waltzes in through the front door.
He looks at Billie and me, his dark features intentionally blank, and holds his hands up in the air. “I was never here.”
“It was one picture! One time!” I announce to the room, trying to clarify myself and cringing so hard at the thought of people I know and respect finding this out about me. Billie is one thing. But Vaughn? Ugh.
“I heard nothing!” he calls back a little too brightly as he heads upstairs. “And even if I did, I’m all for women taking charge of their sexuality!”
I rest my head against the back of the plushy couch and groan. Maybe the cushions will swallow me whole? Envelop me into the down stuffing so that I’ll never have to see anyone ever again.
“Sorry.” Billie winces. “He went to Hank’s place to go over some stuff. I thought he’d be gone longer.”
I close my eyes. Pretending I can rewind time to about five minutes ago, when my dignity was still intact.
Billie pats my knee. “Don’t worry, Pornstar Patty, your secret is safe with me.”
A strangled noise lodges in my throat. I still refuse to look at her.
“Come on, Vi,” she laughs. “Want me to tell you some crazy sex stories to even the playing field? Because Vaughn can—”
“Please don’t.” I hold one hand up to stop her.
“Okay, then stop being a baby and tell me the rest. You posted the picture . . . and?”
I hear the shower turn on upstairs, and I figure I’m safe to spill for a few more minutes.
“He contacted me . . .” I decide that, even if I don’t really owe Cole anything, I don’t want to betray his confidence with the details of that first message. His offer of payment never struck me as anything other than honorable. A fair exchange for a product—almost clinical, really. Like it made him feel better about what he was asking. And the more I got to know him, the more I realized it was exactly that, as well as a way to maintain his precious distance. Something I’d gone and thrown a wrench into.
“And we ended up talking.” She waggles her eyebrows. “As friends.” Her shoulders droop in disappointment. “For a year.”
“What! A year?”
I nod.
“What did you even talk about?”
I run my free hand through my hair. What did we talk about? It had mostly been me asking questions or monologuing. But he always responded, and when I thought he was bored or tired of talking to me, I’d pull back. Only to see a message from him pop up a day later, like that was his threshold for when he’d reach out. Something I took to mean more than it obviously did. Sometimes, we’d watch a movie at the same time and type back and forth about it. It was companionship in the most basic sense of the word.
“Everything and nothing.” I say, because it’s true. We talked about books, television, current events, about our families in vague generalities, but we never talked about specifics. Shared nothing that might give our identities away. It was always entirely anonymous.
“So, you guys never . . .” She holds her hand up in a rolling motion, implying stuff.
I bite down on my lip and look out the window into the dark rainy night. “Once.”
“Once.” Billie grips her wineglass with both hands, sitting up cross-legged now, and nodding, like I’m telling the most fascinating story in the world.
I steel myself, wanting to get this part over with as quickly as possible. “Yes. Once. And it was very one-sided. Which resulted in the end of our . . . whatever it was.” I feel so hot that I’m sure you could fry an egg on my cheek right now.
“What do you mean one-sided?”
Agitation roils around in my gut. This part still bugs me, no matter how hard I try to get over it. Embarrassment is tough to hurdle. “I mean, things got carried away one night. I ended up losing all my clothes on video because I thought I trusted him enough to do that after a year of corresponding. Had the best orgasm of my life. And then Cole refused to reciprocate. He left his screen black the whole time and said he would never partake. All things he had told me in the past, I just thought . . . ” I shake my head with a sad laugh, “I guess I thought I’d be different. Turns out I wasn’t. I deleted the app and never talked to him again. Until the Denman Derby last year when he figured out who I was.”
From upstairs I hear, “Ow, fuck!”
“Were you eavesdropping on us, Vaughn Harding?” Billie shouts to the open loft bedroom, while I look around for a spot to dig a hole and crawl deep inside of it.
“Nope!” he calls back, popping the p with surety. “Just stubbed my toe.”
“I hope it hurt!”
I groan and scrub my hand over my face. “Okay, that’s my cue to leave.” I set the wineglass on the oak coffee table in front of me and push myself up, feeling pretty used to the walking cast now. I can’t get out of here fast enough.
“Vi,” Billie says with a breathy giggle, “don’t worry about it. He won’t say anything.”
I know that what she’s saying is true. Vaughn is a good guy, an honorable one. But that doesn’t mean I’m keen on him knowing about my sex life. About his brother’s sex life.
Good god.
Cole. I should probably tell him about this minor mishap. Just in case. I can already imagine the blank expression he’ll give me, the way his jaw will tick as he crosses his arms.
I limp to the door, and Billie follows. “Let me drive you home.” I’d come here with her after hanging out at the barn all afternoon, which also means I have no independent way of getting home.
“No, you’ve been drinking. I’ll walk.”
I hike my bag over my shoulder and slide my good foot into the rain boot I wore over as Billie holds the front door open for me.
“Let Vaughn drive you home.”
“Ha!” I bark out a laugh. “I think I’ll pass on that for now. I need a couple days before I can look him in the eye again, thanks.”
“You sure?” She nibbles on her bottom lip nervously. “It’s raining pretty hard.”
I reach into my bag and pull out a small umbrella. “I’m all set. It’s not that far.”
Billie doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t stop me either—something I appreciate. I don’t like being babied, and I don’t need people treating me like porcelain because I have an injury. My brothers would have been back up on a bull with a tiny fracture like this, and here I am wallowing around like a wounded princess.
I step out into the dark, damp night and sigh. Raindrops pelt the top of my umbrella, the pinging sound loud all around me. The smell of dirt and rain permeates the air. It smells fresh, like new growth. The perfect night for a walk to clear my mind and cool my cheeks.
WALKING WAS A BAD IDEA. The heavy April rain has washed away all the charm of the night rather quickly.
My leg hurts, I’m cold, and this shitty little umbrella leaks. If I hadn’t been such a wuss, I would have just accepted the ride from Vaughn. What’s a five-minute drive for him is more like a twenty-minute walk for me. Probably longer with my limp. And I’m not even halfway.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter as I hobble down the gravel road in my stupid walking cast—which is also not waterproof, which means my sock inside is getting soaked. And cold. I rarely swear, but now and then, a situation warrants it. This situation is one of those. This night is one of those. Actually, this week is one of those.
Tears sting at the back of my eyes. The bridge of my nose tingles. I’m not a crier, and this isn’t an unmanageable situation. But right now, everything feels heavy. Like more than I can bear. My career, my leg, my personal life. Sometimes being an independent grown-up is exhausting.
I stop and stare up at the sky, trying to force a deep breath into my lungs, but my frustration wins out, and I end up screaming to no one at all, “Fuck my fucking life!”
Which is right when headlights turn down onto the road, illuminating me like the Broadway actress that I am not, like the universe is just dying for someone to witness my meltdown, or splash me as they drive by. But when the truck gets closer and slows, I realize I recognize it. A window rolls down, and a thick forearm shoots out, waving me forward.
“Get in!” Cole shouts.
I feel like under different circumstances I would say no. But at this moment, all I feel is intense relief. Like I don’t even care who’s here to save me, as long as I’m being rescued.
He reaches across the front seats and throws the door open before I even get there. A simple gesture, but I still feel like I could hug him for it. I fold down my umbrella and haul myself up into his big truck, hating how high off the ground it is but loving how dry and warm it is all at the same time.
I say nothing as I slam the door and buckle myself in. I can sense that Cole is looking at me. I can feel anger radiating off him in waves, like when you sit too close to a space heater. But I don’t care. I just drop my head back against the headrest, close my eyes, and sigh, suddenly very exhausted.
“Are you trying to make your leg worse?” His voice is precise—I can hear his military background in there. He sounds authoritative, and I like it. It’s not a question so much as a demand. It reminds me of the night we went too far.
“Thank you for picking me up,” is all I say back, instantly feeling a little dopey. Wine, cold, and strapping yourself in on an emotional rollercoaster will do that to a girl, I guess. And I assume Billie is behind this—something she’ll pay for later.
He just grunts and drives. I sense him moving around beside me and squint from under my lashes to see what he’s doing. One big hand reaches over to my side of the dash, and I watch his heavily corded forearm flex as he presses the seat warmer button for me. Is he worried about me being cold? I follow that arm up to his fingers as he rotates the knob to maximum heat, not missing the way his veins bulge over the top of his strong hand.
Everything about Cole is hyper masculine. Something my body can’t help but gobble up, even though my mind screams at me to ignore him. His body, his features, his voice. God. His voice. All deep and gravelly. He could make a killing as a phone sex operator if that was still a thing. And if he ever said more than a few words at a time.
As a pen pal, he’d been slow to come around. But in real life? He was like squeezing blood from rocks. Next to impossible to get talking.
Which is why I don’t bother making small talk. I let my eyes close and revel in the heat pumping out of the vents all around me. If he’s not going to talk to me, I won’t waste my energy talking to him about what may have come to light at Billie and Vaughn’s house. Want my trust? Earn it.
When the truck finally slows and comes to a stop, I open one eye and peek at him. He’s staring at me, completely closed off, but staring at me nonetheless.
“Stay there,” he clips out in that bossy voice.
I’m too bone-tired to argue, and I watch from under heavy eyelids as he hops out of the truck. He may have upset me, but I’m not above watching the way his jeans stretch across his ass and thighs. The man is huge, a wall of muscle. He could crush me if he wanted to.
A shiver runs down my spine as he rounds the front of the truck and opens the passenger-side door before announcing, “You’re going to let me help you out of here.”
I roll my head along the headrest to look back at him, quirking one eyebrow in response. That wasn’t a question.
He crosses his arms, widens his stance, and glares at me. He looks like a bouncer at a club, about to deny me entry. A small hysterical laugh bubbles up out of me at the mental image. But Cole doesn’t join in. He continues glaring at me, his mouth set in a thin line, his eyes burning across my skin, threatening to set me alight—like the strike of a matchstick.
Ugh. I need to drink less wine. And have an orgasm.
“Okay,” I whisper, my voice small and unsteady. My leg really hurts. Not like it did last weekend but walking around a bunch probably wasn’t my best-laid plan. So I flip my legs out to dangle off the seat. I look like a little kid trying to get out of here. “’Why does your truck need to be so big?”
He ignores me as he steps forward. “Why do you have to ask so many questions?”
“You compensating for something?” Yup, that’s the wine. I feel my cheeks heat at my boldness as I watch his jaw tick.
I expect him to plop me down on the ground, but he growls and scoops me up in his arms, one slung underneath my knees, the other right across the strap of my bra. “Oh.” I breathe out. “Okay.”
He takes long, ground-covering strides toward the house, like he can’t wait to drop me. I can feel his biceps bunching against the side of my breast, and with the golden cast of the porch lights, I can admire the definition in his arms, thickly corded and hard. No wonder I commented on them before.
I expect him to drop me on the front porch, but he keeps going, crouching slightly and easily snaking the hand from under my knees out to twist the door handle. I know I’m light, but the man isn’t even struggling. At all. He kicks the door open and carries me in. I peek up at his face, the harsh slashes of his cheekbones, his heavy brow, the stubble across his jaw.
“What’s the scar on your eyebrow from?”
His eyes shift down at me like I’m an irritating child.
“From my time overseas,” he says.
I know that means during his time in the military. Something must have happened if that’s all the explanation I’m going to get, and now I feel horrible for even asking. It’s not my business. I feel like I crossed a line.
“It suits you. I like it.” I say, trying to smooth things out. Except I’m sure that was a dumb thing to say by the way he’s looking at me, those gray eyes pinning me in place. His chiseled chest rises and falls in a more pronounced fashion, and his breath fans across my throat as he regards me intensely.
That look only lasts a moment before he deposits me on the couch gently. Then he steps away quickly, like I might be on fire.