Kip
The words sizzle on the tip of my tongue as soon as they leave me.
I can't believe I just said that!
Darby stumbled upon a truth I've been dealing with my whole adult life. Men do objectify me, and I fucking hate it.
I hate the pressure to always look good. To have perfect skin. The perfect body. The perfect everything.
It's too much. Especially in LA where superficiality has been elevated to an art form.
But I also hate that it's robbed me of something no one should ever have taken from them—feeling good about themselves, whether they're "perfect" or not.
"Y-you are?" Darby checks.
I scratch the back of my neck, hoping I can find the words to match what's in my heart.
"Yeah. I think so. I've—I've struggled for many years to make peace with how I look.
My appearance has opened up a lot of doors for me, which is a privilege, one that I am truly grateful for.
But it's also caused me a lot of pain. Turning forty a few years back, I was determined to get my shit together and finally love myself for who I was.
I stopped with all the Botox and filler.
Stopped coloring my hair. Stopped working out seven days a week.
Stopped obsessing over every single calorie.
I didn't want to feel attractive because society or other people told me I was.
I wanted to feel good about how I looked because I loved myself unconditionally. "
I stop for a second, my heart racing like I'm running a marathon. I've never shared any of this with anyone, not even my closest friends. Why is it so easy to open up to Darby?
"It's been a long and fucking brutal journey for me to be able to sit here and say I'm still pretty damn sexy. I wasn't being cocky or douchey, believe me. I've never spoken like this to anyone. I was reclaiming my power that was stolen from me a long time ago."
"Wow," Darby says for the third time. "That explains why you said you couldn't be happier Sky hadn't told me anything about you. It all makes sense now."
I drop my head, feeling more exposed than I have in a very long time even though Darby can't see me. "I guess it does."
Neither one of us says anything for a while, the silence only broken by the sound of my cell phone ringing.
"Mitch, where are you?" I say, picking up.
He gives me the 411, and I try not to groan with frustration at the delay.
"Okay, fine. Thanks. Oh, and remember that thing? Yeah, I'm calling in my favor. Okay, bye."
"What's wrong?" Darby asks.
I school my face to keep my voice smooth as I say, "There's been a holdup."
"Why?"
"Travis Kelce just showed up."
"Oh."
"I'm so sorry, Darby. Are you sure you don't want me to call the fire department? I really want to get you out of there."
"Please, don't. I will die of embarrassment. I can handle this in front of you, I couldn't in front of a bunch of strangers."
My chest warms at the inadvertent slip. He doesn't think of me as a stranger.
"It won't be that bad," I assure him. "They deal with way worse."
"No. You don't understand."
He stops himself.
Every single fiber of my being is screaming to find out why he doesn't want me to call for help, but I force myself not to. He didn't push me, and it allowed me to open up to him in a way I felt comfortable to. I want to extend the same grace to him.
"I…um, I had a bad experience. As a kid," he stammers.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
He breathes in and out a few times, deep, heavy breaths.
"Our house caught on fire, and when the fireman rushed into my bedroom to get me out, I was having a panic attack and couldn't move. I've had this guilt ever since that by freezing up like that, I almost killed him and me."
"That obviously didn't happen," I say softly.
"Yeah, but…whenever I see a firefighter, I get flashbacks of the smoke and of being trapped in the house and of being so weak and stupid."
"You weren't weak or stupid," I say. "You were a child, and you were scared. Like anyone would be in that situation."
"I guess."
I didn't think it was possible, but now he's told me that, I hate that he's locked in that damn dressing room even more.
"Are you sure I can't get you anything?" I ask, feeling utterly weak and stupid myself.
Why couldn't I get the damn master key to work?
Why did I have to go and install an electronic door system in the first place? It's a freaking dressing room, not a bank vault. An old-fashioned latch would have been sufficient.
"I'm okay, really. Thanks, though. I might have some water, but I've got a bottle in my bag."
I hear unzipping.
I hear some shuffling.
And then…
A neon-orange dildo slides under the door.