Chapter 15 Nora
NORA
I look at the clock, noting that it’s a little after midnight. Not particularly late, but I suppose I must have passed out after my wild orgasm.
Seriously, that was…
I notice that my hand is clutching my phone, and the screen is lit up.
And I’m…
Shit! I realize that I’m naked on the bed. My bones are achy and my head is killing me—probably from the sulfates in the wine. I note the bottle on the nightstand and pick it up. About half the bottle is gone.
Well, that explains the headache and the passing out.
Thank God it’s just me and the cat. I can’t imagine this would have ended well had I gone out…
At least there’s no one here to embarrass myself in front of. Not like the other night in front of Rush and Freddie.
I slide off the bed and grab my panties, throwing them on along with one of the large sweaters I purchased. I grab my phone, swiping to check my messages because my phone keeps going off with text chimes.
Maybe it’s Abby or Zayne.
I still haven’t told Abby all the details of what happened. I know I need to talk to her, if only to get a second opinion and to vent. About this whole situation. Brett, the cheating.
Rush and that kiss. Freddie and his surprises.
Tommy, and his opening up…
I don’t have any new texts from Abby or Zayne, though it looks like I have several from…
Brett.
My heart rises into my throat, because his isn’t the only name I see. In fact, I see Tommy, Freddie, and Rush. All with notifications.
But all I can settle on is Brett’s name. I don’t think, I just swipe to see the thread and nearly drop the phone when I see what I sent him.
A photo of me—dressed in my underwear and bralette. Oh my God.
Panic rises within me because I look like someone else. My hair is a messy mass of fire and my lips are open and parted as my dark eyes look through the lens, staring back at me as if to remind me to never drink again.
Good lord.
But it’s not just the photo that makes my heart stop. It’s Brett’s response.
Brett: Took you long enough.
No hi, hello, or what’s this. It’s almost like he’s being smug, like he expected this.
Brett: Is this your way of saying you’re sorry, baby?
Sorry?
He thinks a picture of me in my fucking brand new underwear is an apology? I’m not the one who needs to apologize!
Fury heats my insides as I realize there’s something else after his text.
A…video.
My blood chills. It’s clear I’m not in the video, or rather, not much more than my hand, but still—I get the feeling it’s not going to be good when I hit play.
And I know I have to.
Because I have to know what I did. I don’t remember sending that photo and I certainly don’t remember recording myself doing anything…
I know once I play the video, there’s no going back. My head is killing me, my heart in my throat. I need to know how I responded to Brett.
The man whose first words after cheating on me—days later—are asking if I’m apologizing to him.
So I press play. I watch as the video shows nothing but my palm, the wall, and perhaps an odd angle of the ceiling. But there doesn’t need to be any video to display what’s obviously going on.
I think I’m going to be sick.
Because the sounds of my strangled, desperate need for release hit my ears like a shrieking raven.
I cover my mouth, dropping the phone as I pull my knees up to my chest. The sound echoes around me, a curse of my own making. I close my eyes as the tears come. Just as the sound of my release bellows around me. I shut the video off and push the phone aside as tears fall down my cheeks.
It was an accident. I didn’t mean to record that.
Just like I don’t think I meant to send that photo, but…
A part of me knows I did.
Mean to send that photo.
I was feeling myself—feeling confident in how I looked, for once. And that confidence had translated to boldness and drunken impulsiveness, and wine-drunk me apparently thought it would be a good idea to sext my ex with a steamy photo of me looking like someone I don’t recognize.
I don’t want to keep looking at the thread, but I have to. Because I need to know what he said. I need to know how deep I’ve gotten myself this time.
So I pick up the phone with a shaky hand and look at Brett’s response.
Brett: Where are you?
There’s no answer from me, though there are several more texts from Brett asking where I am. Demanding I tell him where I am. If I’m at some guy’s house. After the third we’ll talk about this later, I let out a choked sob.
And then I see Tommy’s text come through on the screen.
Tommy: We should grab coffee. Talk more.
My heart stops as I stare at his words, and my mind wanders to this morning. In his truck. How he just…listened.
Part of me wonders if I would call him now, if he would listen.
Something tells me that he would, but the truth of the matter is I don’t even know how to start that conversation.
Though I can’t deny the idea is rather tempting.
With everything’s that happened since Brett and I broke up, I feel like I’m living in a damn hurricane.
Every spin and twist brings a new obstacle, or something happens that I don’t expect and could never anticipate.
Maybe I should just take him up on the offer. I could use a break from all this nonsense.
And something tells me that Tommy would tame the chaos spiral if I let him. If I gave him the chance.
Then I realize I have two other unread messages. One from Rush and one from Freddie.
I swipe to see Rush, his thread above Tommy’s. I’m not sure what I expect, but when I see my photo—the same one I sent Brett—staring back at me in the thread, I nearly scream. Not only did I send Brett the photo—and the video—but I’ve also sent it to Rush!
Panic laces me as I realize Rush not only saw this…he…
I scroll down to see the photo he sent back, and when I look I actually do yelp. Because there on the screen is most certainly Russell Sterling’s dick.
I nearly choke at the sight. After feeling Rush’s damn cock—which I’m more than certain happened as the bits and pieces come back to me—and thinking about it, seeing it is…
I blink, unable to look away. Not because it’s a masterpiece or anything, but because it’s just as sizable as I imagined it would be. And I can’t help the way my body responds—my heartbeat kicking up a notch, my pussy twitching at the sight.
It’s not the best photo by any means. It’s low in light, and it looks like it was taken in a bathroom. But the details are prevalent. His thick, angry-looking cockhead, all pink and swollen. Long, thick veins running along his length. His hand, those long, thick fingers wrapped around his shaft.
And then I realize, that photo wasn’t just some unsolicited dick pic. It was a response.
To what I sent him. The photo of myself and that video.
Something about his response switches something inside of me. Brett’s reaction was to think I was somehow apologizing. Like I want him back. Like me sending a photo of my body out for him to gawk at was some sort of offering.
But Rush?
Rush responded by laying himself out for me to gawk at. A wordless response that echoed the desire felt within the confines of my photograph. It wasn’t just a response as much as it was a question.
Asking what, I don’t even want to think about.
I swallow hard as I realize how thick and hard he is in this photo. Dare I think it’s because of me? Because he was looking at me, listening to me?
I’m not sure I know how to feel about that, as a mixture of nausea and panic lace through me.
And then I get a text from Freddie.
My heart stills as I prepare to see what it is he’s sending me. I’m terrified. With the way things are going right now, I don’t know if I can handle another fuckup…
Sure enough, as I click his text, I see it.
That same, chilling photo of myself and the video.
I glance quickly to see his response, feeling like the worst person on the planet.
Freddie: Wrong number, sweetheart.
A wave of relief settles on me along with disappointment.
He brushed it off. Understood it was a mistake, and yet he didn’t get pissed off or scold me.
Do I want him to scold me for such things? The fact that I can’t say no has me feeling more than queasy. Because I can almost imagine Freddie and his deep dark voice, his captivating dark green eyes as he looks down at me and calls me a bad girl instead of a good one.
Would he punish me for my wrongdoing? What would that even look like?
I shove the thought aside because I certainly do not need to think about Freddie doling out punishments in any way. Sexy or not.
No, Nora. Don’t go down that road. Be glad that Freddie Sterling has a shred of decency because you apparently have none.
I let out a heavy breath as I consider my ultimate mistake. How the hell am I going to walk this back? How the hell am I going to smooth this over and figure out what to do?
Not to mention, how do I respond to Brett and tell him this wasn’t an apology, but a drunk mistake?
But would that be so bad? Apologizing to…
No! I shove the thought aside and call Abby without a second thought, shaking from the reality of what I’ve done. If anyone can help me make sense of this mess I’ve made, it’s her.
Despite it being late, she answers on the first ring.
“Nora, hey—” she answers, and it doesn’t sound like she was sleeping.
The cry comes out first as I say, “Um…I think I fucked up, Abby.”
“Where are you, are you okay?” The panic in her voice is evident.
“I’m at Mike’s, I’m fine, I—” I let out a heavy breath as I say, “Well, I’m not fine. I was fine, before I accidentally…”
“Accidentally, what?” she asks skeptically.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as the shame and guilt hit me hard as I confess my sins.
“Um…I might have accidentally sexted Brett,” I say, my breath heavy.
“What? Nora, why would you even—”
“And…his brothers too.” I add the last part hurriedly, rushing it out like Rush scores a goal.
Abby’s shriek only solidifies the truth and makes me feel worse.