Chapter 3
Darla
Imet Tyler at Pink Beaver’s student night, which was a joke because no one there had ever been inside a classroom.
I was wearing my Sunday best—white blouse, blue skirt, sensible flats—because nothing turns a bunch of drooling frat rats on more than a girl who looks like she’s just come from choir practice, especially when the girl has the kind of curves that force you to reevaluate your relationship with the Lord.
We ditched his friends at the bar after three rounds of shitty vodka cran, and he followed me down the sticky, pulse-lit corridor like he was expecting to get mugged by the wallpaper.
I picked the only “private room” that didn’t smell like someone died in it last week.
It was barely bigger than a closet, with a flickering red light and a two-seater couch that had probably seen more mileage than my stepmom’s Honda.
The walls vibrated with muffled trap music and the sound of someone else’s party gone wrong.
I pressed him to the couch, one hand on his chest, and crawled into his lap like a fucking spider.
My skirt hiked up past my thighs, and I let my hair down with a practiced snap, shaking it over my shoulders in a way I knew would short-circuit his brain.
His mouth hung open, and his eyes did a slow, full-body scan, like he couldn’t decide if he was about to get laid or get stabbed. Maybe both.
He tried to kiss me, and I let him for about three seconds. His tongue was tentative, all hope and no finesse. I took control, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw a little blood. He whimpered—actually whimpered—and I felt a mean, electric thrill rocket through me.
“Don’t be such a pussy, Tyler,” I said, and grabbed his hand, guiding it up my thigh.
He shuddered. “Sorry, just—damn, you’re—” He didn’t finish the sentence, because I shoved his fingers under my panties and ground myself against his palm.
The look on his face was the best thing I’d seen all week. Like a kid waking up to find Santa standing at the end of his bed, holding a shotgun and a bag of weed.
I rocked on his hand, using him, while the room spun with the thud of bass and the stink of spilled booze.
I wanted to lose control, but not so much that he’d think he was running the show.
I wanted to take every inch of what I’d been denied since the day my mother died and left me alone with a father who thought shame was a love language.
His other hand went to my breast, squeezing tentatively through the blouse. I arched into him, moaning louder than I meant to, and then popped the top two buttons for him, because I could tell he wasn’t the type to rip open a shirt unless there was a gun to his head.
He finally got the message, and next thing I knew, his mouth was all over my chest, clumsy and desperate, like he was trying to memorize the taste before the world ended.
He tongued a circle around my nipple, and I could feel the heat of his breath through the fabric.
It made my toes curl, and my pulse punch through my skull.
“You ever do this before?” I asked, just to fuck with him.
He nodded, but his hands trembled so hard it was a miracle he didn’t drop me.
“Liar,” I said, and shoved him deeper inside me, hard enough to make him gasp.
He tried to get clever, thumb working the way he must’ve seen in some Pornhub tutorial, but I rolled my hips to remind him whose show this was. The pressure built, a slow burn from my spine down to where my thighs locked around his, and I realized I was actually going to come.
That almost never happened. Usually, these encounters were about power, the pleasure secondary to the transaction. But Tyler, in all his nerdy panic, had unlocked something deep and ugly and alive in me.
I ground against him, faster, until I was panting, moaning into his neck, leaving a red streak of lipstick across his collar. My whole body tensed, then bucked, and I bit down on his shoulder to keep from screaming.
After, I collapsed on top of him, sweat soaking the back of my blouse. He held me, limp and shell-shocked, like he’d just been shot at and was waiting for the all-clear.
For a minute, neither of us spoke. The room was nothing but heartbeats and the fading echo of whatever song had been blasting before. Then Tyler said, so softly I almost missed it, “You’re not like other girls.”
I laughed into his ear, low and mean. “No shit.”
He stroked my hair, like we were in some terrible movie, and said, “You’re… I don’t know. Scary.”
I rolled off him, tucking my skirt back in place, and reached for the half-finished beer someone had abandoned on the table. “You have no idea,” I said, and chugged the whole thing.
He watched me, slack-jawed, as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Was it good for you?” I said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
He nodded, blinking. “Yeah. I mean—hell, yeah. You just—I never met a girl who…”
I cut him off by standing, adjusting my panties, and buttoning up my blouse like nothing had happened. “You want to buy me another drink?” I asked.
He scrambled up, tucking his dick back in with shaking hands. “Yeah, sure. Anything you want.”
I always took a certain pride in how fast I could switch gears.
The trick wasn’t to hide the evidence—it was to make the evidence part of the costume.
By the time Tyler fumbled his way out of the couch cushions, I already had my skirt straight, my blouse tucked, and every stray strand of hair pinned back into Sunday-appropriate order.
He stared at me, slack-mouthed, as I pulled a compact from my purse and reapplied lipstick in the reflection of the beer-slicked table.
“Jesus,” he said, still breathless.
“Fucked your brains out in a strip club closet.” I snapped the compact shut.
He laughed, nervous, but I could tell he was already running the highlight reel for his friends.
I checked my phone. Two missed calls from Dad, both ignored. A text from the church group chat about tomorrow’s bake sale. No one ever called me unless they needed something or wanted to remind me not to disgrace the family name.
Tyler made a show of tucking in his shirt. “So, um, you want my number?”
I smiled at him, softer this time. I felt a flicker of guilt, the way you feel when you kick a stray dog off your porch. “Sure. Gimme your phone.”
He handed it over, fingers still trembling. I typed in my number, then deleted it as soon as he looked away. I wasn’t cruel. I was just efficient.
He hesitated at the door. “You ever want to hang out again…”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I said, not unkindly, and gave him a little wave. “Good luck out there.”
He left, glancing back once like he expected me to follow.
I didn’t. Instead, I ducked into the employee bathroom, locked the door, and did a full forensic sweep in the cracked mirror.
The lipstick went back in the purse, the hair got a quick brush and a spritz of vanilla body spray.
I dabbed at my neck with a foundation sponge, covering up the hickey Tyler had left in a fit of freshman enthusiasm.
The necklace—Dad’s old cross, always and forever—went back on last, the cherry on top of my rehabilitation sundae.
I counted to ten, then slipped out and headed for the bar.
Heather was on shift tonight, pouring doubles for a pack of old bikers who probably still thought cocaine was the secret to happiness. She saw me coming and flashed a grin, equal parts wicked and knowing.
“Church let out early?” she asked, voice loud enough for the drunks at the end of the bar to hear.
I leaned on the counter, making sure my blouse didn’t ride up too high. “If you can believe it, yes. But I had to make a pit stop for some spiritual guidance.”
She poured me a shot without asking. “You look like you could use three.”
I tossed it back, feeling the fire chase away the aftertaste of Tyler’s cologne. “Thanks, H.”
She wiped the counter, leaned in close. “You all right?”
I shrugged. “As good as I get.”
She nodded. “You ever wanna talk about it—”
“I don’t,” I said, but she squeezed my hand before letting go.
We had an understanding. She never judged, and I never pretended I was here for the scenery.
After another shot, I paid up and left through the kitchen, dodging a soused ex-con with a tray of hot wings. The exit dumped me into the alley behind the Beaver, where the dumpsters smoked like a Greek temple sacrifice and the air tasted of cigarettes and rotting fruit.
I took a moment to breathe, head tilted up to the thin sliver of moon overhead. It was quiet out here, just the hum of cars on the interstate and the distant shriek of a woman laughing herself hoarse.
I liked it better than the silence at home.
I rechecked my phone, reread Dad’s last message. “Be home by ten. Don’t make me come looking.”
I laughed, loud and bitter, and started the walk back. The streetlights made everything look cleaner than it was. My shoes clicked on the wet asphalt, and I could see my reflection in every puddle—flawless, contrite, untouchable.
Just the way he liked me.
At the corner, I paused to light a cigarette. The first drag always hit hardest; it was the closest thing to prayer I’d known since Mom died. I watched the smoke curl up and vanish, imagined it carrying every ugly thought away with it.
I finished the cigarette, dropped it in a storm drain, and pulled my jacket tighter.
As I walked, I felt the old, familiar ache settle in my chest. The one that said this was all temporary, that sooner or later the walls would close in and I’d end up just another local headline—Pastor’s Daughter Caught in Sin, or something equally poetic.
But not tonight. Tonight, I was invisible again, free to make my own mistakes. Tomorrow I’d go back to the choir, the charity bake sales, the little white lies that kept the family name out of the gutter. But right now, I was alive, and that had to count for something.
At the next block, I slipped off the sidewalk and cut through the graveyard, just to see if I could still make it through in heels without falling.
I did. Not a single scratch.
At the far end, I ducked through the gap in the fence and emerged onto Main, two blocks from home. The house lights were off; Dad was probably still at the church, prepping his sermon about the dangers of temptation.
I smirked, thinking of Tyler, of the look on his face when I rode him like a stolen bike. I kept walking, head held high, like I was the only person in town who knew how to fake it and survive. Because I was, and tomorrow, I’d do it all over again.