Four

CORA

The last time I woke up hungover in a college dorm, I was twenty and it was the morning of my Harvard graduation. That day, I chugged a gallon of water, and my parents didn’t suspect I spent the previous night upside down over a keg, doing something that made a frat guy say, “This girl is talented .”

Now, I’m twenty-four, haven’t spoken to my parents in three years, and I’m staring down a humongous suction-cup dildo attached to a standard-issue Georgetown University nightstand.

Part of being a camgirl with two camgirls for best friends means I’m accustomed to assorted sex toys laying around our bedrooms, but even I have to admit this one is intimidating.

Of course it belongs to Essie, our resident size queen.

Groaning, I paw around for my phone until I find it under the pillow.

There are two messages from Everett.

I don’t read them.

***

Every year in the District of Columbia, the end of March brings drippy weather, sporadic bouts of torrential downpours, and gray skies that part for a two-week period when the District is magical. In true DC fashion, when beauty presents itself, the District cashes in. Delicate pink cherry blossoms become tourist fodder, and the National Cherry Blossom Festival marks the beginning of tourist season.

I hate tourist season.

The metro is more crowded than a Patagonia store near an Ivy League campus when fleece vests go on sale. I have to throw elbows to squeeze myself into a car, and for a few stops—in the bitchiest of karma’s many offenses to date—I’m smashed against an ad poster featuring Felix J. Worthington: New York Times bestselling author, one of Fortune Magazine’s Thirty Under Thirty, a regular correspondent on 24N, and the first guy to tell me he loved me.

Fucking bastard.

Based on how my current life and karma are going, I’m pretty sure I was at least a war criminal in a past life—possibly top brass in Genghis Khan’s army—and am paying duly and dearly as a result.

The metro reaches my station, and my phone buzzes with the arrival of two more texts from Everett.

I still don’t read them.

Three years ago, I vowed I wouldn’t tolerate men who disrespected me. Sexists. Classists. Liars . I decided they weren’t worth my time, energy, and brain cells. I knew their capability. I knew their damage. Felix made damn sure I knew.

For three years, I kept my vow. When my last boyfriend cheated on me, I dumped his ass faster than a busy soccer mom throwing a chuck roast into a crockpot on a Wednesday. When viewers made Asian fetish comments during my streams, I blocked them like a fullback in the Super Bowl. No exceptions, no second chances.

But I kissed Everett. I kissed a man who looked me in the eye and said my mere association would jeopardize his career. I kissed a man who spent the last seven months glaring at me every time I entered a room, who didn’t even wish me a happy New Year at a get together in my own condo.

Last night, I was drunk, yes, but I knew what I was doing. I kissed him because I wanted to. I kissed him even though I swore off trust funds and heirloom watches and Ivy League breeding. I kissed him because I thought he wanted me to.

And he made a fool of me.

When I get to the Halcyon, I throw last night’s clothes in the hamper. I shower. I discard my lipstick because I can still see it on his mouth. I type and delete five messages to Valeria inquiring if Lander would break up with Everett if she asked.

When I put in a takeout order, the red notification bubble on my text app glares at me with the now five unread messages from Everett. My thumb hovers over the app, imagining what he might have to say.

Do you kiss everyone who insults you?

Next time you tell me to fuck my own face, I’ll know you would have let me fuck yours.

I thought you were smart, but you keep falling for these egotistical rich boys. Is that what you like? Guys who think they’re better than you?

I delete Everett’s messages without reading them and wish everything were so simple. I want to delete the memory of his lips against mine. The slide of his tongue in my mouth, brushing over my piercing. Even the scratch of denim against lace where the hardness of his erection met the apex of my pussy.

I thought purging the red notification dot would help, but nothing has changed.

I’ll block him.

And I’m a swipe away from cutting off all contact when my phone lights up. Incoming call from EVERETT LOGAN.

It must be a mistake. Nobody calls anyone—and Everett definitely doesn’t call me. He’s probably trying to send another text or an ancient curse and accidentally dialed me.

I send it to voicemail, but within a minute, he calls again. My eyes trace the twelve letters of his name, and I seriously consider ignoring him, but I’m Cora fucking Flores and I don’t hide.

“Yeah?” My greeting is so sharp that it borders on hostile.

The silence feels like minutes until Everett’s voice breaks through, saying, “You answered.” His tone carries a raspiness I’ve never heard before, but the exhale on the end sounds remarkably like relief.

“I did.”

“I didn’t think you would… Are you at the Halcyon?”

“Yeah.”

He clears his throat. “Did you get my texts?”

“I deleted them.”

“Oh…Look, at the risk of coming off as a complete piece of shit—”

“The risk hasn’t held you back in the past.”

“—Yeah. Shit. Shit . I need a favor. I wanted to talk first, but—”

“We’re not going to talk about it,” I interject. “So ask your favor, Everett.”

He’s quiet at first. “Can you please go to Lander’s place, find a tie that works with a navy-blue suit, and bring it to Georgetown as fast as humanly possible? I know it’s weird after last night…” He trails off. “Please.”

“You’re calling me of all people? Surely centuries of Logan money and Virginia tax dollars can pay for someone else to fetch you a tie.”

“You,” Everett repeats. “I need you. I’ll owe you. Anything you want. My cameras. My trust fund. Please . I need you right now.”

Normally, I’d find this level of desperation amusing, but as far as I know, the concept of desperation and Everett Logan are strangers. Right now, he sounds…different. Unnerved—like last night.

I check the time. My takeout is en route, and I only have a couple hours to get ready for my stream.

“Please,” Everett murmurs into the silence. “Do you want me to beg?”

He’ll beg.

I may not know Everett well, but the strain in his vowels and reticence in his pauses tell me he’s not a man who begs.

And I wonder what that looks like. What it feels like. I wonder if begging would be as disorienting for him as it was for me to kiss a man who I wished I’d never met.

I want to know.

I exhale. “If I do this,” I say, “you have to promise me we’ll never speak about last night.”

Everett doesn’t answer at first.

“I have to hear it,” I press. “Promise.”

“I promise,” he finally agrees.

It’s settled. “Fine. I’m coming.”