1. 1 Tori

“ Oh, yeah,” I fake moan, as Kyle continues to lick at the wrong spot.

That's my inner thigh, Kyle. Can you really not tell the difference? You're twenty-fucking-two!

When his text came in proposing I come sit on his face, my deprivation prevented me from denying his request. I took an Uber, like an idiot, because my car is still sitting pretty at the shop with a starter that needs replacing, and a ball joint that's as loose as an eighty-year-old woman's sagging tits. Hard to come up with the money at twenty-one, with a part-time job and college books to buy.

His hands grip at my thighs, pulling me down further toward his face with need… probably because he's in the wrong damn spot. My thighs burn in agony, hovering over him so I don’t crush him.

I don't want to suffocate a man with my labia.

I'm so bored, my gaze is fixated on the Rocky-fucking-Balboa poster he has hanging on the opposite wall.

How the hell did you get here,Tori?

When his hand aimlessly reaches up toward my breast, I take it, guiding it to his wanted destination. He squeezes too aggressively at first, but realizes his mistake and eases, massaging it softly instead. Now, if he could just get his tongue in the right spot.

“Mmmm, yes. That's it,” I throw in, needing to finish this already. I've gotten too good at faking it as of late.

Let's see… this will be the twenty-seventh time I've had to pretend I've had an orgasm? I'm not sure that anyone, aside from myself, will ever get me to come again—not since him .

Is this what sex is going to be like for the rest of my life? If so, shoot me now.

I would like to believe that I could keep to myself rather than continue this hopeless journey, but here I am, hovering over Kyle's face in hopes I'm wrong and he has somehow figured out how to bring me the pleasure I so desperately seek.

Nope. Nothing but fucking licks to my thigh. Come on, Kyle! You're killing me.

“Oh, yes!” I yell out in my convincingly fake tone as I start to grind my hips faster for show. His finger pinches at my nipple, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from wincing.

After this is done, I'll have to return the favor and choke on his soda can of a dick. I'm definitely getting the raw end of this deal. I tense my muscles as a muffled, high-pitched squeak leaves my mouth, allowing him to believe he got me to reach my peak. My thighs are screaming as I hop off and die silently beside him in bed.

Stop skipping your trips to the gym, Tori. You're so out of shape.

Kyle immediately props himself up on his elbow with such a self-assured grin. I want to slap it straight off his face.

You're a fucking idiot, Kyle. But sure, feel good about yourself.

“That was faster than last time.” He wiggles his brows as if I should be praising his skills, but it only annoys me further.

Shit, was it really ?

“Yeah, I guess it was. It must have been the boob play.” I pinch my lips together so tight, I almost make them disappear entirely into my mouth.

“Ready to return the favor?” he asks, but he's already taking his pants off as if he knows the answer. I'm not one to leave someone high and dry, so I'll do it, but after this, Kyle is on the block list. So useless.

His thick-ass dick jumps to life like a cobra ready to strike, the large veins throbbing with need, visible from across the room, pulsing all the blood to the pink tip of his cock.

“One second.” I reach over the bed for my pants, digging in my pocket to pull out the Dick Lips I brought specifically for this. If I'm going to choke on his cock giving him head, then at least I’ll make it taste good. I lick the gummy before sliding it down his cock— Suck Me Strawberry. The gummy tears slightly at the side, almost splitting apart and becoming useless, but thankfully it holds together, just barely.

From there, it's just a lot of sucking, gagging, licking, and rubbing until Kyle comes in my mouth without so much as a warning. I want to spit it all back out on him, telling him to open his mouth and swallow it his fucking self. I don't . Instead, I gulp down the slimy shit and get dressed.

Why do you do this crap, Tori? You know no one is going to erase the memory of him , no matter how hard you try.

“Well…” I slide my legs into my underwear, pulling them up so fast I almost trip. “This was, uhhh…” I'm searching the forgotten corners of my mind for a word to describe this dreadful experience as I grab my pants and shimmy into them.

“Amazing?” he offers. At this point, I don't care enough to come up with an adjective to describe what this really was.

“Sure,” I nod as I spot my shirt on the nightstand, pulling it on as I make my way to the door. “Goodbye, Kyle. ”

I don't turn to look back at him, leaving before he can say anything more. Add another one to the books, Tori. You're on a roll.

***

“Where did you go last night?” Alicia hands me the cereal box, her thumb still skimming her phone, lost in endless doom scrolling. Her eyes stay glued to the screen, barely acknowledging my presence.

I grab the box and head to the counter, pouring an absurd amount of chocolate puffs into a bowl and drowning them in chocolate milk.

“I went out,” I say, lifting my bowl.

“Wow. Thank you for that detailed answer.” Alicia’s words drip with sarcasm. It’s our default, the glue that makes us bond as roommates. She gets it. I get it. But that doesn't mean I enjoy being on the receiving end of it.

I scoot the chair back, the legs screeching in protest across the seventies-patterned linoleum. Sitting, I drop my bowl on our small, round, red table and shovel a spoonful of chocolatey goodness into my mouth. “I'll give you one guess.”

Alicia finally looks up, intrigued. “Another failure?”

“Another failure,” I sigh, refusing to say his name. Admitting that I’d expected another disappointment would only make it worse.

“I’m telling you, you need a professional.” She leans back, crossing her fishnet-covered legs beneath her Lolita-blue dress and black corset.

“I’m not sleeping with a sex worker,” I groan, bending over my bowl.

“That’s not what I mean.” Alicia wrinkles her freckled nose, waving a dismissive hand. “I mean, find someone super experienced. Like, someone who knows what they’re doing. ”

I get it. I’d known one once. That’s why I’m in this mess.

“And how exactly do I find that?” I arch a brow.

“I know people.” She taps her phone, as if the solution is just a text away.

“Nope. Absolutely not .” I shake my head so hard the room spins. Her guys are into kinks that are way out of my comfort zone. “I’m not wearing a tail.”

“You’re missing out,” she shrugs, attention already drifting back to her screen.

“I’ll let you be the judge of that, cause I'm never finding out.” I make an exaggerated X with my arms. “It’s a hard no from me.”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. Anyway, you better hurry or you’ll miss your bus again.”

“Shit.” Milk dribbles down my chin as I curse, realizing I’ve still got a mouthful of cereal. Grabbing one of the disposable toothbrushes I bought yesterday, I brush, darting around the tiniest two-bedroom apartment ever built.

I throw on my black tube top and green cargo pants and race to the bus stop outside our complex just as the bus doors open. Panting, I adjust my bag on my shoulder. Can’t be late for work again.

I swipe my card and grab a dangling handlebar, giving up on finding a seat. The morning commute is always packed—everyone in the neighborhood seems to be on the same schedule.

I miss my car.

It takes a total of five stops, twenty more people, and too many minutes for me to arrive at my destination. I almost miss my stop as I try to squeeze through the mass of passengers, barely stepping out as the doors close, nearly catching the ends of my auburn hair.

I stand on the sidewalk, taking a moment to breathe. The crush of bodies in that sardine can of a bus had left my skin crawling and my nerves shot. A few deep inhales later, when I’m sure my brain can tolerate human interaction again, I turn and head toward the café.

“Cutting it close!” Shawn’s voice greets me the moment I push through the door. He’s at the counter tapping his watch with exaggerated flair.

I glance at mine. Two minutes to spare. Of course.

“Sorry!” I call over my shoulder, hurrying to the employee room. The baggy, green shirt in my bag is wrinkled, but passable as I pull it on and clip my golden name tag in place. It still reads ‘Victoria,’ despite my repeated requests for ‘Tori.’ Months and they still can’t be bothered.

Grabbing my visor, I hold it between my teeth as I tie my hair back and rush behind the counter. Maci is already waiting, handing me the headset with a smirk. “Showtime.”

I slip it on, and my day begins. Order after order streams in, each one more absurd than the last, courtesy of all people who watch too many one-minute drink tutorials.

“Thank you for choosing Java Jive, where we put more effort into our coffee than our small talk,” I deadpan, bracing for the reaction on the other end of the line.

There’s silence—long enough for me to wonder if the connection’s dropped—before a voice so rich, so delicious , fills my ear and makes my knees lock.

“I’m not sure I like that,” the voice says, smooth as velvet. “If the effort for small talk is that low, I can’t imagine how much—or how little—goes into the coffee.”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I’m stuck in a loop, trying to think of a witty reply. Instead, I settle for the professional route. “What can I get started for you today? ”

“A small, black coffee,” he begins, then pauses, presumably to confer with someone. “And a medium caramel frappe?” His tone is hesitant, like he’s questioning the very existence of frappes.

“That everything?” I ask, biting back the urge to add, ‘You sure about that? ’

“That’s it.”

“Great. Please pull up to the window.”

As I start on the order, my hands betray me, shaking like I’ve chugged a pot of espresso. Caramel dribbles down the side of the frappe cup instead of inside it.

Maci steps in, fixing my mess with a dramatic eye-roll. “What is wrong with you?” she whispers, but I don’t answer. My heart is pounding as I step to the window, anticipation fizzing under my skin.

The truck rolls up—black, imposing, and with windows tinted so dark, it’s like staring into a void. The driver’s window slides down achingly slow, revealing a face that hits me like a punch to the gut.

Him .

You've got to be fucking kidding me! Thorne Harrow—my high school bully, and the last member of the Iron Triad.

What hits me harder than the sight of him is the girl beside him—Sadie Gray, my ex-best friend.

Sophomore year, when the Iron Triad cranked their bullying into overdrive, she folded like wet paper. Instead of standing with me, she jumped ship—and right into their circle. She didn’t just abandon me. She joined in.

“Oh shit! Vicky, is that you?” Sadie leans forward, her glossy smile stretched so wide, it’s a wonder her face doesn’t crack. Her eyes, though, betray her. The malice behind them gleams like a knife hidden under silk .

“I go by Tori,” I say, my voice steady, despite the rage prickling under my skin. I take Thorne’s card, ignoring the tremor threatening my hands. I focus on the register, forcing myself to act like it’s my first day and I need every ounce of concentration just to hit the buttons correctly.

“Really? Weird!” she chirps, leaning over the middle console until her cleavage is practically in Thorne’s lap. It’s a spectacle, one I refuse to dignify with a response.

“Not really,” I mutter, handing him the card and receipt through the window without once meeting his gaze. I keep my gaze locked on our hands, unwilling to face those eyes. I can still see them, clear as the day they haunted me in the dark—smoldering behind a cigarette’s ember, black as coal, cold as the void where his heart should be.

Sadie, oblivious, or simply indifferent, keeps chattering. “Oh, come on. Vicky was so cute ! I mean, I came up with it, so obviously, it would be. It was so perfect.”

“It wasn’t,” my tone clipped, my patience thinner than my budget. “That’s why I never liked it.”

Maci appears beside me holding their drinks, but it’s obvious her focus isn’t on the cups. Her eyes rake over Thorne, like he’s a rare steak on an empty stomach. Not as appetizing as she thinks, I want to tell her, but I let it be. Anything to be done with this encounter faster.

Three years I’ve worked here. Three years of blessed anonymity, carefully chosen by picking a job outside of town and avoiding anyone from high school. Yet here they are, dredging up memories I’d happily buried. I’d rather run into the boy I accidentally flashed in gym class than these two.

“We should invite her,” Sadie whispers to Thorne, her voice carrying just enough for me to catch. My stomach knots. Whatever she’s scheming, it’s nothing good .

“Hey, Vic—Tori!?” her voice rings out again, syrupy sweet.

I plaster on a smile so fake, it might as well be modeled after hers, and meet her gaze, those baby blues framed by curtain bangs she probably paid way too much for. “Is there something else I can get you?”

“We’re having a party this weekend at my house!” she announces, her grin as genuine as her surgically enhanced Ds. “You should totally come!”

“Um, yeah. I’ll think about it. Thanks.” My tone is neutral, noncommittal. Anything to end this conversation.

The air thickens with awkwardness. Thorne hasn’t said a word, his gaze locked on the windshield, jaw clenched like he’s grinding glass between his teeth. Sadie, unfazed, pats his thigh like he’s a prized pet she owns, then turns her saccharine smile back to me.

“Great! See you there!”

Fat ass chance.

As their truck pulls away, I feel my lungs expand fully for the first time since they arrived. It’s as if their presence had sucked all the oxygen from the room.

There’s no way in hell I’m going to that party. I can’t. I won’t.

But a tiny, traitorous part of me lingers on her invitation. It wonders, it craves. Maybe it is what I need—to prove to them, and to me, that I’m not the same girl they crushed under their boots in high school.

Maybe it’s time to prove to myself that I’m not the same girl I was in high school.