Chapter 12
Emery
Opening my eyes first thing in the morning—ever since Tray bounced my head off the brick wall—is always a gamble. The pain meds from the night before have worn off, not to mention the nausea that can still catch me by surprise.
Lying perfectly still, I concentrate on my body, on feeling each individual toe and then rolling my ankles.
I slowly work my way up from my legs to my lower back and torso, down my non-braced arm to my fingers, then back up to my chest, neck, and jaw, all the way to the top of my head. Then, and only then, do I open my eyes.
My room is pretty dark, so I’m not one-hundred-percent sure of the time, and I can’t trust my body clock to give me an idea if I’ve had enough sleep, because it never feels like I’ve had enough. Stretching my arm out, I reach for my phone and tap the screen.
Tuesday, nine-twenty-two a.m.
It takes a second to work out what that actually means and where I should be, which is in my economics analysis class. I let my eyes flutter shut, waiting to see if that tiny bit of light caused a headache, but no stab of pain comes. Not even a dull thud. Just a lot of fog.
Maybe I’ve turned the corner?
I must doze off again because the next time I check the time, it’s after eleven and there is very much no headache. The room, while less dark, is still dim, but I force myself to sit and stack pillows behind my back to make it somewhat comfortable.
When I reach for my phone, I spy several things that aren’t the way I left them before I went to bed last night.
One. The DHDX bracelet is back on my wrist after I took it off and left it on my bedside table.
Two. A glass of water and my medication sit on the nightstand.
Three. My desk chair is now right next to my bed, and it has my laptop and my white bear with the heart nose—Blue—sitting on it.
Four. Next to Blue is a flat white gift box adorned with a pale peach bow with white polka dots.
Five. The yellow fucking envelope Derek gave me yesterday is propped up on top.
Six. There is a container on my desk with a little piece of paper folded over to make a sign that says Breakfast in a handwriting I don’t recognize, which means it’s not from Oakley.
Xavier?
Eyes darting around the room, I search, but there is no sign of him. Which is good, because if there was, I would have had to yell at him for ignoring the hard line in the sand I drew about him being in my room.
Well, it was more about him not sleeping in here with me, but I felt it was pretty fucking obvious I didn’t want him in my personal space. I’d even asked Oakley for help getting his things out of my room while he’d been in the bathroom.
Sneaking in to set this up for me was a gray area, and if the man was a color, it would be fucking charcoal.
Groaning, I jam my fingers into my closed eyes and rub. Hard.
What did Derek say yesterday?
All four of us are still here, and we are going to wait for as long as you need us to. We aren’t ready to let you go. Yes, we are going to give you space, but we are going to be here for you in whatever capacity you allow.
Whatever capacity I allow. Fuck off. Seriously. Fuck that noise and all the drama that comes with it. I have very clearly articulated what I want from them, and that is exactly nothing.
I was a little too shell-shocked at seeing Derek in the waiting area to deal with him the way my hindsight wishes I had, but now I’m fucking mad. I said red. I asked Oakley to tell them that I didn’t want them at the hospital.
Why can’t they leave me alone?
Confrontation is not my favorite. I can do it when I really have to, but I prefer to avoid it. It’s probably what made it so easy for Tray to keep me in line the way he did. To be honest, not until I started applying for college did I realize he’d been using me.
Before that, I was just thankful that he had stepped in as my protector.
But that was all fake. The same way a pimp pretends to give a shit about his girls, until they start stepping out of line. Then the real asshole shows his face.
Can I keep ignoring this? Them? If they are only going to take whatever scraps of access I give them, can I not give them any and wait for their interest to fade?
That might work for the other three, because I have a feeling their understanding of what is socially acceptable and what is not will overwhelm them eventually.
But Xavier? The man has no concept of boundaries.
At least, not that I’ve seen. He continuously pushes at the line until it moves the way he wants it to.
I’m going to have to remain strong, both physically and mentally, which is going to be fucking difficult because not even five days ago, I was so weak for these men. So fucking weak.
It’s only a breakup. My first one, really. I never broke up with Tray; it was more like I silently quit my job with him. Our relationship was based on fear and a twisted version of loyalty, not fluffy feelings, like kindness, compassion, and comfort.
I’ll get over it, eventually. It might take a while, since there are four of them to get over, but I can do it. I just need to focus on the goals I have for my life.
Working my way out of bed, I open my bedroom door and peek out into the shared space. Empty. Which makes sense. Oakley has a class to attend, and Xavier probably has one to teach.
I use the bathroom, then head back into my bedroom, spending exactly zero seconds looking at myself in the mirror.
Last night, the bruise over my cheekbone and around the outside of my eye was overwhelmingly purple, with a very dark patch around the small cut.
It may or may not leave a scar, but I don’t give two fucks either way.
That’s not the reason I can’t look at my reflection.
The girl in the mirror is broken, and I don’t want this version of me to become a core memory.
Grabbing the breakfast container and the spoon next to it, I climb back onto the bed and slip my laptop out from under the pile of things, catching Blue before he falls off the chair.
I put him next to me as I sit, figuring I can use the moral support while I go through my emails and start coming up with a plan on how to catch up on my schoolwork.
As my inbox loads, I crack open the container, surprised to find a very artfully laid out mess of fruit, nuts, and other things layered on top of something white—yogurt?
Whatever this is, it looks delicious. Picking up the spoon, I take a tentative scoop, capturing some of the strawberry and what looks like chocolate powder with some of the yogurt.
My mouth explodes with flavor, and I stare at the little bowl of yumminess. What the heck is this? Another mouthful goes in, and I could moan at how good it is.
But I don’t. Because that would be weird. It’s food. Not an orgasm. Really fucking amazing food that tastes like an orgasm in my mouth.
The brightness on my screen dims, and I drag my attention back to my laptop before it can lock, thankful I got that most recent mouthful swallowed all the way down before I saw the first two emails in my inbox.
Vandermere, Thayne. Dean of Newton University.
Private & Confidential: Request for meeting.
Padiachee, Margot. Senior Agent at Muse Collective.
Twisted Love modeling sessions – Info.
Dread pools in my stomach, awakening the nausea I was so pleased about not having. Neither email will have anything good in it, and while I should have been expecting the one from Darcy’s agent, I was definitely not expecting one from the dean of Newton University.
But…Derek said he’d spoken to him when we were standing in front of the elevator. Actually, wait. Did he say that they had been meeting with the dean at Obsession? Is—I glanced at the From of the email—Thayne Vandermere a member of Club Obsession too?
A slightly hysterical laugh fills my small room, but I barely hear it over the sound of blood rushing through my ears.
What the fuck is going on right now? Is the dean of the university I literally live off of going to pressure me into continuing to fuck his friends? Is that what this is?
Like someone else is controlling my hand, I click on the email to open it up.
Ms. Nicholas,
Your attendance is requested at the office of Dean Vandermere on Friday at 4:30pm, for a welfare check after the events on the Newton University campus on Friday evening.
Please rest assured that the university and its staff will provide the support you need to work through your situation.
Regards,
Thayne Vandermere
His sign-off is followed by detailed instructions for locating his office and his official university email signature.
The rushing sound of blood has turned into a dull throb in both of my temples, and I am overcome with several urges at once—to snort, to laugh, to throw my laptop across the room, to pull the blankets up around my head and go back to sleep.
Instead, I click on the other ominous email and rip off the Band-Aid.
Darcy’s agent’s email fills the screen, and I scan the contents.
Nothing earth-shattering, thankfully. Everything is as the contract said it would be.
There is an address and session times—Saturday mornings and Tuesday afternoons.
The first session is this Saturday. Details on what I need to wear and how I should have my hair and makeup done.
Guidance on what to eat and drink in the twenty-four-hour lead-up to each session.
That last one surprises me, but when I think about it, it makes sense. I’d need to be hydrated but not overly so. If I’m going to hold a pose for a long period of time, it’s not like I can take multiple bathroom breaks.
Am I really still going to model for him?
After everything that’s happened? Because, as much as I want to completely blame Derek for how they have all treated me over the past month, Derek wasn’t the one who stood me up on my first-ever date.
Derek wasn’t the one who tried to manhandle me out of modeling for an art class.
Derek wasn’t the one who went completely radio silent until I forced an interaction.
Okay, well, he did kind of do that last one.
Darcy humiliated me in front of a restaurant full of people. I will never forget the look of pity on the waitress’s face.
Maybe I can treat this as just business?
Since I’ve ended things with them, the sugar baby money is going to end, but if I keep the contract with Darcy, I can save that money. I might even go on a sugar date here and there so that I can treat myself once in a while without touching my savings.
And it’s not like I have to talk to Darcy during the sessions, especially if that hyper-focused state he was in after that one session in his classroom is any indication of what he’ll be like.
I’ll show up, do my job, and then I’ll leave. That’s it. Keep it nice and simple. I can make it clear to Darcy that we won’t be having any personal conversations. The only words that need to be exchanged between us are about what position he wants me in. For his art.
That could work. And if it doesn’t, I’ll quit.