9. AVA
I wouldn’t advise anyone else to do the walk of shame on the subway at five in the morning, but it's the only option I have. The sun is creeping over the high-rises in a way that makes my head pound, so I keep my eyes away from that blinding light.
I just need to hurry up and get to Leighton’s. I’ve already texted her, letting her know I’m on my way. I’m lucky to find two of her five roommates gone for the day, because the moment she spots me, she squeals loud enough to wake the whole apartment.
“What the hell, Ava?”
She grabs me by the shoulder and practically shoves me into the tiny nook she calls her room, my bag of luggage clattering behind me until I park it against the wall. She’s divided her twin-sized bed from the rest of the living space with a sleek shower curtain, creating the illusion of privacy. But that’s what you do when you’re crammed into a one-bedroom apartment with too many people, hustling to finish your last year of college while living off bartending tips.
“Did you get mugged ?”
“No, of course not,” I snap at her, desperate to get the whole story out but wishing I could keep it private—just a little longer. It’s the last shred of dignity I have left.
“I mean, my god. Look at you.” Leighton wrenches my head to one side to glare at the side of my neck. The side where Spandex bit into my skin almost hard enough to break it. “You better start talking, or I’m gonna call my brother.”
Leighton’s brother, one of the few family members she’s actually close to, is an NYPD cop with connections in all the right places. She must still think all these marks on me are the result of some heinous crime. I’m thankful she’s wrong, but explaining this is, well…a little humiliating. I’ve never allowed myself to be used like a piece of meat amongst a trio of men before.
If I kept a journal, I could just imagine the entry.
Dear Diary,
Who knew a chick could hit so many fucking climaxes? Double digits, too. That’s probably Guinness World Record-level stats right there. Go, me! Although, I'm pretty sure my vagina is officially wrecked. And my cervix. And possibly my clit. But damn, every drop of sweat, every flutter, every stretch of new sensation? So. Freaking. Worth it.
Xoxo,
Good Girl
"Good girl" has a whole new meaning to me now. I groan and bury my face in my hands.
“Ava…” There’s a warning in her tone, so I might as well quit putting off the inevitable.
“You remember those three men I left with?”
My bestie makes a revolving gesture for me to continue. “Yeah.”
“We hit it off tonight. Like all night.”
“Are you telling me that this—” She points to the dark mark on the side of my neck. “ That is nothing but a love bite?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“But you’re black and blue.” She’s getting all sorts of wound up.
For the first time, I notice the bondage burns along my wrists and the fingerprint bruises dotting the parts of me not covered by my skirt and blouse. None of it hurts, not really, but appearances can be deceiving.
“This isn’t what it looks like.”
“Are you sure it was consensual?”
“Yes, definitely. One hundred percent. Better, actually. It was damn good sex. Like mind blowing, body numbing, earth-shattering sex.” I’m shattered, all right. “I needed to get out of my head for a while, so I did.”
I don’t feel like I should apologize for my actions, even if they were borderline extreme. Sure, this might be out of character for me, but my life is in fucking tatters right now. Facing the reality that I have no clear path to fix things doesn’t exactly bring me comfort, either. The only real positive is that I’ve finally left Dean, though that could easily spiral into a huge shitshow once he finds out what I’ve done. And that I’m asking for a divorce.
Again, I refuse to think about that until tomorrow.
My brain can’t quite believe that I did something as reckless as a three-man one night stand. It seems so insane to me now. And, as I slip into Leighton’s single bathroom for a shower, since I didn’t take the time back at the hotel, the proof of my activities is even worse than I realized.
Not only are those little bruises on my arms and legs, they’re on my hips, sides, shoulders, and back, as well. When I remove my still-damp panties, they chafe against the tenderness between my thighs. The faint outline of a handprint is on my ass, and then the glaring hickey that Spandex left on my neck is way more garish in the bright light over the sink. No wonder my bestie freaked.
I couldn’t look any more violated if I tried.
Once showered and clean, I change into yoga pants and a comfy cotton halter top. My phone buzzes and I smirk, the sound reminding me of that special vibrator. Since I’ll probably have a long dry spell coming up, maybe I’ll look into buying one of my own. If I can afford one. They’re probably expensive as hell.
Despite resolving not to worry about my situation until tomorrow, my brain brings up everything I’ve been trying to forget. My measly savings won’t last me long if I don’t find a job soon. I continue to stress over this as my phone buzzes again. It’s not just some email notification; it’s a phone call with an unfamiliar number that goes to voicemail.
It's probably just spam, but the transcript function displays the message in written form, and as I’m reading, I do a double take. I scan it more closely, then listen to the voicemail. Shaking my head, I listen to it again. I abandon the bathroom in a stupor of disbelief.
“What’s up with you? One of your guys call back for a repeat?” Leighton grins sarcastically.
As if they could, since we maintained our anonymity.
But I can’t think about them right now.
“The assistant coach with the Colorado Avalanche called.”
She tilts her head. “The NHL team?”
I nod. “It’s one of the places I interviewed with weeks ago. They hired someone else, but that person had to drop out for a family emergency. They want to hire me, and I’m going to accept.”
Leighton squeals, jumping up and down, and I join her. Denver is so far from Newark that Dean will have no way of knowing where I am or what I’m doing. I’ll finally be free.
After calming down, I download the new-hire paperwork they sent via email, sign it, and send it back. I won’t be making the same mistake twice. In the packet is some general info about the players I’ll be tending to, including a group photo of the team in uniform, their helmets off.
I blink, catching something familiar. I zoom in on the image on my phone, my heart racing, blood freezing in my veins. In the back row, standing tall and unapologetic, are three men I know all too well. Three men who, to put it bluntly, I can describe very intimately.
Eric Schwartz, Sven Hinter, and Levi Corolla.
Or, as I’ve come to know them—Odds, Doggie, and Spandex.
Men I’m now supposed to massage… professionally.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
~ The End ~