Chapter Twenty-One
Delilah
Since I have to wait until three-fucking-o-clock to see my very unavailable emotional support wet dream, I decide to knock a few essentials off my to-do list. Rhys might not be aware of my progress (because that office skank with the dull acrylics won’t forward my messages), but I know. I am healing. I am goal-oriented.
Today’s mission? Secure my rightful place as Friday’s nude model/artistic revelation. Because no one, and I mean no one, wants to sketch that scrawny little goose-necked sad girl. She’s a human breadstick. No tits, no chaos, no depth.
Rhys doesn’t want her. He wants me.
I head over to Goose Bitch HQ, aka the crusty old walk-up above the 24-hour laundromat that smells like dryer sheets and broken dreams. I hit the buzzer with confidence and blind faith.
Someone lets me in without asking who I am, which is how you know these people have never lived through a true crime documentary.
There are three doors. One door creaks open and a man emerges wearing fuzzy pink slippers, a bathrobe that looks like it’s survived at least two divorces, and a single Bluetooth headset blinking blue against his temple like he’s in a one-man CIA simulation.
His eyes are glassy. His hair is doing interpretive dance.
He looks like regret got drunk, put on a robe, and started freelancing as a ghost.
He stops. Blinks at me. Slow. Suspicious. Like he thinks I might be selling religion or ketamine. Maybe both.
“I’m looking for Kira,” I say, like that’s going to make this situation any more normal.
He inhales sharply through his nose and stares at me like I just declared myself queen of Neptune.
I clarify. “Tall. Too thin. Looks like weaponized fragility in the sheets?”
He nods. Wipes his nose on his sleeve. And, dead serious, he starts flapping his arms like a chicken and lets out a full-bodied cock-a-doodle-doo like he’s the ghost of Farmer Fuckboy Past, followed by a whispered “They always come for the birds,” and points one trembling finger to the last door at the end of the hall.
Then he turns around, bows to an invisible god, and goes back inside without closing the door all the way.
And I’m the one in therapy?
I tiptoe past his door and pull the letter out of my purse.
Gotta proofread. Can’t send threats with typos. I have standards.
Hey there, gorgeous
Just a gentle suggestion: maybe sit this Friday out before the universe makes that decision for you. I know it’s hard to give up the spotlight, but this one wasn’t meant for you.
Sometimes the muse picks her subject. And sometimes? The subject gets pink eye and nobody wants to draw a crusty-eyed tragic swan.
I’d hate for something unfortunate to happen. Like your bleach getting replaced with Nair. Or your tires going full lemming off a curb. Whoopsies!
You don’t even like art, do you?
Be well. Stay home.
Love,
A Concerned Admirer
P.S. You’d look stunning in a mask. The kind that’s sutured on for safety.
I sprinkle the envelope with glitter. Just enough to get into her pores and haunt her next three exfoliations, not enough to be fabulous, and seal it with a smiley face sticker from my “Emotional Regulation!” planner set.
Then I slip it into a pastel gift bag, with a small sachet of glitter, rice, and one rogue Barbie shoe, just to rattle her, and tie it off with a pink ribbon that whispers, “I could burn your whole life down and still get brunch reservations.”
To drive the message home, I tape a single googly eye to the tag that says: Even when you sleep.
I knock politely. No answer. Probably out starving herself and auditioning to be the human personification of oat milk.
So I hang the bag on her doorknob, blow a kiss, and head back to the car with the smug glow of a woman who just sent a polite threat with legally ambiguous intent and impeccable stationery.
Sticker Heart.
Check that off the list.
I am productive.
I am terrifying.
I am the moment.
And I smell like Bath & Body Works villainy.
Now. On to Rhys.
Susan, or whatever the fuck her real name is, doesn’t say a goddamn word about the sixteen voicemails I left. No “Sorry for the psychiatric emergency.” Not even a “He’s very busy not caring.”
Just that brittle Stepford smile as she hands me a clipboard I don’t need and says, “He’ll be right with you.”
“Thanks so much,” I reply sweetly, while fantasizing about replacing her shampoo with expired cottage cheese.
I pick my seat very carefully, angled just so, legs crossed for the maximum garter-flash the moment that door opens. This isn’t desperation. It’s strategy. Marketing. I am the product and Rhys is going to buy with his eyes, even if his mouth still says “Miss Darling.”
Which is exactly what he says when he appears.
“Miss Darling.”
Oh. Oh fuck.
Tuesday Rhys hits different.
There’s the faintest shadow along his jawline, enough to suggest that if he put that stubble between my legs, I’d be speaking in tongues and limping into Wednesday.
His sleeves are rolled up again. Forearms flexing like they’ve got a fuck schedule and I’m late for it.
He smells like secret sins, and I am immediately, ferally, regretting my panties.
“Rhys,” I say like it’s a sin and he’s the priest who told me to do it again slower.
He closes his eyes. Breathes in. Not through his nose, into his soul.
God, I hope it smells like me.
“Follow me,” he says.
Oh, I will. I’d follow him into a burning building and ask him to rebuild me brick by brick.
I uncross my legs with a subtle hip-shimmy. Just enough to scandalize anyone watching. Which no one is, except maybe the ghost of Susan’s sex life.
I pad after him on clicky heels. He opens the door to his office, and I make a beeline for the couch. Not the edge, no, I sprawl out like this is a lovers’ quarrel and not court-mandated therapy. I wiggle out of my shoes with a delicate sigh. They drop to the floor.
I stretch my legs. Make sure the garters catch the light.
He sits beside the couch. Not on it. Coward.
Sit on the couch, Rhys. Sit beside me. Smell me. Fight God and your ethics.
“I understand you had an emergency,” he says calmly. “Would you like to talk about it?”
“Had?” I say, propping up on my elbows, posing for a horny noir poster.
“Rhys, I have an emergency. I had to survive motorcycle orgasms, a public assault, at least two love epiphanies, faced a childhood trauma, and some minor vandalism. And I did it all without your soothing therapist voice in my ear.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Since Thursday?”
“I’ve been busy. You think I just sit around fantasizing about you?” I do. But I’m also busy. “Or Hank? Who, by the way, I haven’t even looked at. No packages. No drive-bys. No death stares. I’m basically a saint.”
“That’s very good you didn’t interact with Hank,” he says. “How did that feel?”
“Irrelevant,” I snap. “Are you ignoring the part where I survived a full-blown psychological thriller by myself? I brought you chocolates. Dark. I don’t even like dark chocolate, Rhys. But I thought, you do, don’t you? And maybe you’d see the symbolism.”
“What symbolism?” he asks.
I blink at him like he just failed a quiz on us. “Because it’s sweet and dark and melts in your mouth and…” Focus. “Anyway. It’s in the bag.”
“Let’s talk about what warranted today’s emergency session,” he says, in his Therapist Voice.
Oh no. We are glossing over the symbolism? I bought you metaphorical sex candy and you’re just gonna... blink?
This is foreplay. With cocoa content. Participate.
I pout. Full lip-glossed pout. “Where do I even start? I called like, a lot. I left voicemails. I even whispered in one. That was intimate. And now I have to cram all my breakdowns into one hour? Rhys. That’s like trying to funnel fifty gallons of feelings into a sippy cup. My trauma has chapters.”
He nods. Patient. Cruel.
“Can I text you? Like a tele-med?” I offer, trying to sound clinical. “TheraSext. HIPAA-compliant but emotionally slutty.”
“That’s what our time is for,” he says it all like he’s got a license to fix me. But what I really need is for him to use that voice in my ear while ruining my posture for life.
“Our time is sixty minutes. That’s not enough for all my plot developments.
This week alone I’ve been slut-shamed, egged on by a security guard who helped me face a fear, which is your job really.
I committed both vandalism and a deeply meaningful emotional breakthrough.
And I almost ran over a goose model. That’s symbolic. You should interpret that.”
He finally blinks. “Did you say you ran over someone?”
“No. I said almost. It’s called impulse control. Growth. You should be proud of me.” I look at him and drop my voice to a sultry purr. “But if you’d picked up the phone... maybe I wouldn’t have needed to express myself in glitter and minor property damage.”
Rhys sighs. The sound of a man professionally resisting the urge to rail me against his bookcase.
One more pout and he’ll be clinically compromised.