Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mina
Amonth and a half later
Fuck this shit.
Playing dress-up was fun when I started doing it ten weeks ago, but now it’s tedious and altogether fucking awful.
“I need to know what exactly you’re sacrificing and to which deity,” Joyce garbles around a mouthful of cereal. There’s a pile of dishes behind her because our stupid dishwasher shit the bed a month ago, and we can’t figure out why.
I grumble under my breath, shoving twenty pieces of clothing back into various bags so I can get a refund now that I’ve taken pictures in them. This stupid account is doing a hell of a lot better than I ever anticipated.
I hate it.
Why isn’t my writing this successful?
Even Joyce started piggybacking off my account by editing the photos to add some sort of artistic spin to them with her drawing.
It’s going so well that a mega-million-dollar clothing company reached out to her to collaborate, and we’ve made five thousand dollars this week alone.
I didn’t realize how lucrative this industry is.
It’s paying the bills, but it’s not what I want to do with my life. Hell, it’s not even what I want to do with my week. It feels more like prolonging the inevitable because even though I can pay off my credit cards, a dead fish flops less than my chosen career.
I throw a bag across the room and grind my teeth.
“If you hate it so much, why are you doing it?” Joyce pauses like she’s having a lightbulb moment. “Actually, I retract my question. You should keep doing it regardless. My wallet loves you right now.”
I give her a deadpan stare. “It sounded like a good project when I first started posting.” It’s not a lie. My entire life revolves around having little passion projects, and I wanted to do something like this long before I knew the Duvals existed. This was fun for about two weeks.
Now I have no love for this particular endeavor. It’s turned into more of a business than a plot to sink my nails into Leo.
I’m bored, I’m tired, and I’m ready to shut this down so I can go back to focusing on my book, which means I’ve been easing off the gas a bit. And since I don’t want to tell Joyce about my plans with Sabrina, I’ve claimed that money and spontaneity are my sole motivators for this project.
My writing has paid the ultimate price for it, but I’m telling myself that I’m replenishing my creative juices.
I managed to complete the hellish manuscript I was struggling with, and now I’m slowly wading through the edits that are making me lose the will to live.
My mojo is still nowhere to be found. The book releases in a month and a half, and I’ve done next to nothing to prepare for it. So, I’m completely fucked.
Admittedly, my phone has been blowing up all day because I did my cover reveal, and it’s weirding me out a little that it’s getting so much traction. Even my preorders are doing scarily well when the link has only been up for a couple of days. Like, really well. With no marketing.
My phone vibrates beside me.
Sabrina: Did you see that new 90s tech-themed cafe that opened last week? We have to go.
My initial assessment of the younger Duval remains: Sabrina is lovely.
Would I choose to be her friend if we met organically and in person? Probably not, but that’s because in-person interactions scare me.
The only real friend I’ve had since kindergarten is the woman sitting cross-legged on our kitchen bench, eating Lucky Charms with a teaspoon—the gravest sin.
I have internet friends as well—if those count. But the beauty of those people is that they understand the meaning of “low-maintenance friendships.” Sometimes being connected with Sabrina feels like a part-time job since we have to meet up often, and her social battery is always on full charge.
I’m a cranky old soul who needs a break from peopling. Whereas she needs to people to remain friends. It’s exhausting. I know she’d ease off if I told her I need to disappear every once in a while for no real reason, but I’m worried that would translate to Leo backing off as well.
Mina: I’m in. We can go once you’re back from LA. Don’t forget that you owe me an embarrassing T-shirt.
Then to Leo, I say:
Mina: Good luck tonight. I’ll be rooting for the other side.
“Look at you. A couple of lovebirds.” Joyce smirks. My cheeks heat under her attention, and I dip my head to hide behind my hair. “I can’t believe you’re texting each other after all the fretting you did. Have you told him that you have a shrine of him next to your bed?”
My jaw drops. “I do not. His face just happens to appear on my mood board.” Many, many times.
Joyce has no idea that Leo is talking to Jas, not Mina.
Or that I’m texting his sister.
“I can’t help that I’ve got game and he’s eating it up.” The lie tastes bitter. I’m surprised I’m not used to it by now.
“Alright. Calm down, player. Just let me know when the baby is on the way.” She chuckles when I throw a pair of jeans at her.
“Says the one who broke up with their boyfriend and found another within a week.”
“I have game too. A roster, if you will.” Shrugging, she hops off the bench and gives her bowl a quick rinse. “Ugh. I’d rather eat my left tit than go to work.”
I hold up the bralette that some brand sent me. “Now is the perfect time to become a stripper. Don’t knock it until you try it.”
“And make a man happy in the process? I think not.”
Chuckling, I slingshot the bralette into the “keep” pile that’s growing too quickly for my liking. Hoarding will be the death of me.
We say our goodbyes, and she triple-checks that the door is locked behind her before she leaves.
It’s a new habit she’s picked up after I found the door wide open in the middle of the night almost two months ago.
Nothing happened from it, but we don’t exactly live in the same type of picturesque suburbia as Leo.
Here, the likelihood of being murdered in my sleep is low, but never zero.
My unhappy cleaning continues until I receive a reply from Leo that has me grinning.
Leo: I’m going to say this once, and only once.
Leo: Take that back.
My mind conjures up images of his eyes turning possessive as his jealousy becomes a tangible thing with its own heartbeat. It sends a sick thrill down my spine. What I wouldn’t give to experience that in the flesh . . .
I tug the edge of Leo’s hoodie up to my nose and inhale his two-day-old scent.
I’ve learned to rotate his clothing by swapping them out whenever I go to his house, so his smell still lingers in the fabric—and so he doesn’t notice he has a one-day-will-be-welcomed house guest. Spraying his cologne all over my clothes isn’t the same as getting it straight from the source.
Mina: Or what? I can support any team that I want.
Leo: Baby girl, I could do things to you that you couldn’t even dream up.
I can’t help it. I giggle like an idiot.
Baby.
Girl.
Baby girl.
This man makes me so stupid, I feel like I need to be tied to a tree like a goddamn werewolf.
I’ve had countless dreams where he whispers those words in my ear, voice hoarse and strained as he fingerfucks me mercilessly.
It’s my most vivid, recurring dream that pains me to leave.
I always wake up aching and sore, as if it happened.
The high of it only lasts a handful of minutes before reality sets in that it’s all in my head.
He’s been upping his flirting game recently, and I’m pretty sure I’m losing my mind because of it. To make matters worse, I told him about the new song I’ve been playing on repeat, and he added it to his most recent post. My ego shot through the roof, and I still haven’t recovered.
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I lie on the floor and type a response that doesn’t make me sound so desperate.
Mina: Sure thing, Mr. Duval. Just some unsolicited advice: no woman likes a man who’s all talk. Truthfully, I think you lack the creativity.
Leo: Last chance.
Mina: Go Phoenixes!
I check the time, then clamor to my room to get ready. I’m going to be late.
Earlier this week, I woke up and decided that two and a bit months is enough time for his team to forget about my existence—other than Jack. That fucker probably has a weekly reminder on his phone to be a piece of shit toward me.
By the time I’m in my car and finding a parking spot, I have the blood pressure of someone getting hunted for sport. I’m a giant ball of nerves and growing more gray hairs by the second.
It feels like everything is looking at me. Watching me. Knowing my every move before I can make it.
Picking at the hem of the NHL jersey, I walk toward the stadium, focusing on the music blasting from my headphones as I lower the cap over my face and navigate through the throng of people.
No one here gives a crap about me—I know this.
But it feels like there are eyes on me, and hiding behind clothes adds a layer of security that my anxious little brain so desperately needs.
The lobby is flooded with a sea of purple and orange as people muscle their way inside. Above the bounding music, my ears ring with the combined echo of footsteps, chatter, and the two children wailing in the corner. If I increase the volume of my music any further, my ears will start to bleed.
The noise, the bump of shoulders, the smell, the jeers, the chilled air, the thick fabric trapping my body; all of it makes me want to join the two kids and scream at the top of my lungs—and probably hurl as well.
It’s like a thousand needles have entered my nervous system, and nails are scraping along a chalkboard somewhere at the back of my mind.
A group of frat dudes holler at each other, waving their drinks in the air while sporting the full Serpents’ colors.
A little kid shoulder-checks me as he passes, face covered in yellow-and-orange face paint for the New York Phoenixes.
Even though we’re dressed in the colors of the same team, the little shit scowls at my jersey as if I’m not worthy of wearing it.