Chapter 2 Mira
MIRA
“Today we raise our glass to celebrate the life of Mira Coolidge,” Sandy, my bff, says solemnly, holding a vodka shot high in the air as I lie beneath her, splayed out on a table like a corpse.
“She was a good girl, a good friend, but in two weeks, she’ll be married off to Tyler Beckensworth. And then…it’s all over.”
Sandy and a random collection of strangers using her toast as an excuse to have another drink toss back their shots and clap before dispersing. I sit up, smiling, not at her wonderful eulogy, but at the thought of what happened just a few hours ago.
I let a strange man I don’t even know use me like a whore.
And even if I didn’t show it to him, I loved every second of it.
I loved it so much that he even got me off, which is something I’m barely able to do myself. My inability to climax has been such a problem that I was beginning to think there was something wrong with me.
But Finn proved that theory dead wrong.
I still feel electric, riding a sensitivity high from the magic of his fingers.
He really knew what he was doing. But what turned me on the most was how he acted like he owned me.
He humiliated me by not even asking if I’d be okay with him coating my face with his cum, and for some reason, that is what has me up in the clouds, floating like the happiest bird in the world.
Maybe that makes me a weirdo, but I don’t care. I like what I like, and no one’s going to make me feel bad about that. Then again, no one’s ever going to find out about it. The only two people who know what happened in that closet are me and Finn, and it’s going to stay that way.
Sandy hands me my shot, which I pretend to take but toss it out over my shoulder and grimace like it was tough going down. I’ve never been a big drinker, and even though this is meant to be some kind of a going-away-bachelorette party, I’m not in the mood for alcohol.
Sandy, who I’ve known since I was ten, is really taking my engagement to Tyler hard.
Harder than me, in fact. I guess I’ve just resigned myself to the fact that there’s nothing I can do to stop this arranged marriage.
Tyler is the new hot trader at my dad’s hedge fund and my dad wants to keep him there.
What better way to do that then marry him to me?
Bring him into the firm, bring him into the family.
The wedding is in two weeks on Nantucket, apparently.
That’s what the e-mail from my mom said.
Everything’s been arranged already. No one even asked me what kind of food I’d like, or flowers, or even what style my dress should be.
Mom took over the whole thing like she always does, making it another one of her “projects” she can obsess over.
Mom is actually the reason I have to go through with this. Sandy gave me a pep-talk last week. I was determined to tell my father to go to hell and that I was going to college and I’d find my own man to actually fall in love with. But that’s when he dropped the bombshell on me.
My mom’s being treated for breast cancer, and my dad is paying for it.
If I don’t marry Tyler, he’ll stop. And given the fact that my mom hasn’t worked in thirty years and has no money of her own, that would be a death sentence.
So what choice do I have? Marrying Tyler may be the last thing I want to do, but if it means keeping Mom alive, then I really have no choice.
Despite her failings—of which she has many—I love my mom. She may be a self-absorbed narcissist who cares more about the appearance of a perfect family rather than actually having a perfect family, but she’s always been there for me when I really needed her.
Dad, on the other hand, was always gone.
He’s one of those type-A, ultra-grindset men who wakes up at before dawn and works until after sundown.
Money, reputation, status—that’s all he cares about.
His daughter’s concerns are so far down the list it wouldn’t be fair to even call them secondary.
So whenever I needed someone, it was my mom.
And I love her for that. The thought of losing her is almost too much to bear.
Thinking about it now, I must have Daddy issues…
Maybe that’s why I submitted to Finn. He crashed into my life like a meteor built from a rare form of masculinity I didn’t even know existed.
The way he manhandled me—it wasn’t about power or control.
It was like I turned him on so much he couldn’t restrain himself.
Like despite the confidence and sex appeal that dripped from his dark, shaggy hair and thick beard, he didn’t want any of the other men to even look at me. He wanted me all to himself.
And that made me feel wanted…almost powerful.
Even now, I can’t stop wishing we’d spent more time in that closet together. I’ll probably never see him again. Unless my car breaks down near his work.
“You wanna get fries?” Sandy asks, rocking her hips to the music.
“Are they any good here?” I should know the answer to that question.
This is the only bar in town that doesn’t really check I.D.s, and as such, is quite popular among the locals.
But despite having lived here my whole life, I still wouldn’t consider myself “a local.”
Dad sent me away to prep-school starting in sixth grade.
We had mandatory sports and music, and with the homework load, I barely had any time for a personal life.
All that mattered was getting good grades and being the perfect daughter.
All the friends I made there are spread out all over the state, and now that I’ve graduated, I barely see any of them.
Somehow, Sandy and I managed to remain friends, despite her attending Chesterville High and me having a thirty-minute commute to school every day.
I always get resentful looks from people in town.
Our house is like something you’d see on one of those celebrity homes TV shows, and my car isn’t exactly lowkey either.
When I marry Tyler, I’ll be moving in with him and his family, a situation I haven’t fully processed yet.
Every time I think about sharing a bed with a man I’ve met only a handful of times, I start to feel sick.
“I’m not hungry,” I confess, glancing around the bar for something to distract me. I see a couple of guys in leather jackets staring at me and turn away. I should have worn something less conspicuous, but that would have meant going back to the house to change and risk running into my dad.
“You? Skipping on fries?” Sandy gasps. “What’s the world coming to? Oh, and what’s going on with your makeup tonight? Did you ask a teenage boy to do it for you or something?”
I blush hard and push my hair over my face. If only she knew what really happened.
“Don’t pick on me, okay?” I say. “My life’s ending in two weeks. Have some sympathy.”
Sandy scoffs, giggling. “Pick on you? Miss I-drive-a-Mercedes-Benz-at-eighteen? Cry me a river.”
I laugh. Sandy is the only one who I’m okay with talking to me like that. Also the only one who is honest enough to give me a hard time. Everyone else treats me like royalty because of who my father is.
Maybe that’s another reason I am so attracted to Finn. He wasn’t intimidated by me at all. In fact, it was almost like he wanted to prove to me that he didn’t care who I was. That my overpriced clothes and ridiculous car meant nothing.
I’m feeling flushed and gulp down some ice water in an attempt to cool myself down when Sandy’s eyes go wide. She’s looking over my shoulder at something I can’t see and whispers a warning, “Oh God, Mira, you’re about to get hit on.”
I groan and deliberately don’t turn around to look.
Maybe whoever it is will think twice and go away.
I am not in the mood for terrible, drunken bar-rizz.
Sadly, I can tell by Sandy’s face that my attempt at communication via body language is not working and brace myself for the incoming awkwardness.
“Hey, there, ladies,” a voice bellows as a biker guy steps up to our table. He’s tall, shaved bald, and built like the trunk of a tree. “Do you know what fucks like a tiger and blinks a lot?”
I don’t answer.
Sandy laughs, and does so on my behalf. “No, tell me.”
The man starts blinking rapidly, trying not to laugh at his own joke.
“Wow, that’s a good one,” Sandy groans. “But we’re kind of having a girl talk right now, so if you wouldn’t mind?”
The guy frowns. His leather jacket makes me think of Finn.
There are a few motorcycle gangs in this area, and I’m betting Finn is in one of them.
Not whatever one this guy’s in, though. I can’t see the two of them ever getting along.
Finn is strong, dominant, and sparse with his words.
This guy’s grinning like a boy who just had his first beer and thought it would be fun to try a cheesy pickup line on a girl.
Like a movie flashback, our moment back in the closet comes rushing back to me…
His rough hands pulling me through the door, pinning me up against the wall and snatching my hair in his tight grip.
He commanded me, spoke like he owned me, and had me tingling all over before he even got my pants down.
And when he touched me…it was the most incredible sensation ever.
I’m getting wet again just thinking about it and what else he could do to me.
What would his enormous cock feel like inside me?
I’d never even had fingers in me until his.
I wonder if it would hurt. Or would the pleasure just override everything else?
From the look of his arms, I bet he has the most muscular physique ever, built from a hard life of riding and fixing motorcycles.
I bet his abs are insane and his lips feel like—
Wow, what am I doing? This isn’t like me.
I never have thoughts like this. Never fantasize. Now I’m a flaming ball of red-hot horniness, just itching for more Finn.
Sandy nudges me under the table, and I realize I’ve just been spacing out completely, day-dreaming a whirlwind of dirty thoughts.
“Come on,” the guy says loudly. “That was a good one! Gimmie a chance for God’s sake.”
Before I can react, the man slides into the booth beside me and slips his sweaty, gross arm around my shoulders.
My nose puckers. Clearly no one has told him about deodorant.
He stinks like cigarettes and swampy salt water.
I have to fight back a gag reflex as I try to struggle out from beneath him.
“Get your fucking hands off her!” Sandy snaps, God bless her.
“Relax!” The gross guy chuckles, pulling me closer. “She don’t mind, do you, sweetie?”
I open my mouth to speak, but before I can, I see Sandy’s eyes go wide again. This time, I’m not even able to turn around to see what she’s looking at. What I do see is her jaw drop like a young Brad Pitt just walked into the bar.
“Holy shit…” she mutters.
The bar goes quiet, and all I hear is the sound of heavy boots approaching, thudding across the old hardwood floor. They stop at our table, and a familiar voice growls, “Get your goddamn hands off her. Now.”
My heart skips a beat.
Holy shit.
Finn.