31
Each time I wake up at Blair’s, I hate it a little more. She’s been nothing but warm and welcoming since I got here, but it’s a stone-cold reminder that I’m not home. That I’ll never be home again, at least not the home that I want.
It’s been a week with no contact. I thought for sure they’d change their minds by now, tell me they want me to come back — but my phone has been drier than the desert. When I ask Blair if they’ve texted her, she looks at me with pity and changes the subject.
So no, then.
After months of being all they thought about, they’ve completely cut me off. It feels unreal, even now. But it’s true, and that means I need to start thinking about my future.
The first thing I need to do is get my own place. Somewhere that has no ties to them or this town, to my Black Widow mother or my phone sex clients. My sexsomnia website is down for good, so that’s gone, and I’ve been thoroughly fired from my job for no-showing so many days in a row.
All I need to do is find a place far away from here and change my last name while I’m at it. As much as I want to honor my step-father and keep the memory of all that Asher could’ve become alive, I need a clean slate. If I’m ever going to move forward, I have to bury my past so deep that it’ll never resurface.
So... one step at a time.
“What are you doing?” Blair asks, peeking over my shoulder. Her long dark hair slides onto the back of my neck and makes us both chuckle, so I move to the side so she can see.
“Looking for a house. It’s not going very well.”
“Why not?”
Because I’m stubborn, because I can’t seem to find one that matches Asher’s layout exactly, because I feel like a dragon hoarding gold now that I have more money than I’ve ever had in my life. “I’m just not finding anything that feels worth the price.”
“You don’t mean money, do you.”
It’s not a question, yet I glare at her nonetheless for trying to pry the information out of me. “Yes, the price. But also the rest of it too,” I add in a mumble. “This one’s almost six hours from here.”
She nods slowly, kneeling next to me. “I don’t care how far it is, I’ll help you move if that’s what you’re worried about.”
It’s not and she knows it.
Part of me wants to stay here in case they change their mind, but I don’t even know what I want. I have freedom for the first time, true freedom. I don’t have to worry about money or getting evicted from an apartment, I don’t have to worry about people knowing who my mom is or judging me for the job I no longer have. I don’t have to rely on a stepbrother who hates me or his wishy-washy friend.
I can do this on my own now.
Theoretically, this is all I ever wanted. The freedom to be able to live my own life on my own terms. It’s right here. Not only can I taste it, I fucking have it, and I don’t have to feel bad about it, either.
The money they gave me is restitution for months of imprisonment, for months of using my body how they pleased. It’s payment for a job done. It wasn’t some handout I’ll have to pay back one day.
I earned every fucking penny.
“Where’d you go?” she asks quietly, snapping me out of it. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, just... thinking. There’s a lot that goes into this decision, you know? It needs to be in a town where there are normal jobs available since this money won’t last forever, I’d like it to be in a good school district in case I ever have kids, a yard for the same reason or in case I get a dog.”
“Do you even want any of that?”
What the hell does that mean? Glancing up at her, my eyes widen in silent questioning.
“I’m just saying. Some women, like me, have been through enough that they never want a man or a family to take care of. We don’t have time for pets, and setting down roots feels like a jail sentence. Some women want exactly what you described — a forever home, a place to raise their kids and take care of their husband. They want pets they can put stickers of on the back of their SUVs. Some women want jobs, some want to be taken care of. There’s no right or wrong answer to any of it as long as you’re living a life that’s true to what you want. So, Rhea Ellis. What is it that you want?”
Her question seems to suck all the warmth out of the room. I don’t know what I want. I want the freedom I’ve always chased, sure. But do I really want to be stuck somewhere? No. Do I really want to go work some menial job just to make ends meet? No. Do I really want kids?
That answer is more complicated. A big part of me says no, that I want the right to be selfish, that I don’t want to risk passing down my disorder. That I have no business caring for a child when I might have an episode myself. But a smaller part of me longs for that connection, to break the fucking chain and give some little kid the chance at a life I never had. So... I guess I want to leave the option open.
And as far as men go, no one will ever be able to make me feel the way that Asher and Manson did. The pain, the pleasure, the highs and lows. It’s toxic as hell, but it also makes me feel alive. And now that I’ve had two, how will one ever compete?
“Oh, fuck me,” I mutter to myself. “I don’t fucking know.”
She chuckles softly and reaches up to close my laptop. “Don’t make any rash decisions. You’ve got time. You’re safe here, and I can talk to Daddy about getting you some easy work so you can continue to stack cash. Then once you make up your mind, I’ll come with you. You’re not alone, girl.”
I know I’m not. She’s proven that day in and day out, yet... I still feel alone.
Why do I still feel alone?