Chapter 2 #2
And then, there’s my memory—that’s the one inheritance the mirrors are not reflecting, and one that I ‘m keeping under covers. Perfect recall. Eidetic, they call it. A gift if you want to win trivia night, a curse if you’d rather forget the look on your father’s face when he called you an asset instead of a daughter. That’s genetics at its most ruthless.
I flop onto the bed and immediately see myself from seven different angles, including the ceiling. It's ridiculous and disorienting and weirdly fascinating all at once.
Twenty-four years old and still a virgin.
The thought arrives without invitation, as it does most nights around this time. Not because I'm particularly hung up on the technicality, but because it represents something larger: the distance between the life I’ve been living and the life I want.
A fortress wall. Getting close to someone means whispered confessions in the dark, lazy Sunday mornings sharing histories, a hand tracing the scar on my back while I trace the lines of their life. It means risking the one thing that could unravel my entire existence: the truth.
So my virginity becomes my last line of defense.
Taralyn Delacroix can’t afford to be known. So Tara Haynes remains alone.
I want to be touched. I want to be desired. I want to know what it feels like to let someone close enough to see me without the performance, to trust someone enough to let them inside the walls I've built around myself.
But wanting and doing are different animals entirely.
I grew up watching my father drown his grief in excess.
After my mother died, our mansion became a revolving door of strangers seeking oblivion and debauchery in expensive wine, designer drugs, and bodies that meant nothing beyond temporary relief.
I saw sex used as currency, as weapon, as escape—but never as connection.
My eidetic memory means I can't forget any of it. Every drunken laugh, every morning-after awkwardness, every empty promise whispered in the dark. I remember the way people looked at each other afterward: satisfied, maybe, but never fulfilled. Never happy.
So I made a choice. I wouldn't give myself to anyone unless it was real. Unless it mattered. Unless it was safe.
Which, given my circumstances, means I've been celibate for my entire adult life.
Shit. That's depressing.
Actually, no.
No to self-pitying. Everything here has been my choice. And I am enjoying life.
Three years of reinventing myself, and I've gotten good at it. Cedar Falls was supposed to be another pit stop, but eighteen months later, I'm still here. Turns out anonymity suits me. No expectations, no family drama, no one trying to turn me into their version of who you should be.
The celibacy thing though? That's just an unfortunate side effect. And tonight we'll take care of that.
I stare at my reflection in the ceiling mirror, trying to imagine what it would look like to have someone else here. Someone who saw me—really saw me—and chose to stay anyway.
Heat pools low in my belly, and I let myself indulge in the fantasy for a moment.
Strong hands mapping the curves I hide under oversized sweaters.
Someone whispering my real name like a prayer instead of spitting it like a curse.
The weight of a body pressed against mine, not taking but giving, not performing but experiencing.
My nipples tighten against the cool air, and suddenly the room feels too small, too warm, too full of mirrors reflecting want I don't know what to do with.
I reach for the bedside drawer and pull out my most recent impulse purchase: a small, discreet bullet vibrator I ordered online after reading Emma Bloom's latest newsletter.
I might have snort-laughed when I read her advice to “go forth and buzz thyself to glory” but it sounded like the exact self-help advice I needed.
It arrived two weeks ago, and I've been too nervous to actually use it.
Tonight's the night, I tell myself firmly.
You're a grown woman. You deserve to feel good. Remember the glow on June after she started shagging with Noah Verelli. Or Amy after Dante, that Italian stallion.
Yes. tonight… but first, research.
I grab my phone and Google "where exactly’s the switch on the bullet vibrator, how to fish out the bullet if it went too deep, where to insert the charging port?” Apparently my questions are not weird since they literally auto-populate in the search bar.
The reviews that pop up sound… funny, exciting but not really reassuring.
"This thing could power a small aircraft. I'm pretty sure it's visible from space when it's turned on."
"My insides are still vibrating. It's been a week."
"Had to explain to my neighbors why my windows were rattling. Also, I think I can now hear colors."
"Register this as a deadly weapon. My cat fled the house and hasn't returned."
“This thing saves my back and my marriage. My wife prefers the bullet to me!”
I laugh despite myself. Clearly, these reviewers have never heard of subtlety. How intense can a device smaller than the size of a tube of lipstick possibly be?
I set the phone aside and examine the innocent-looking object in my hand. It's tiny, sleek and modern. And presumably easy to use now that I know where’s the “On” button.
Here goes nothing.
I take a breath and let my free hand drift across my skin, fingertips tracing the line of my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder. The touch is feather-light, tentative, like I'm introducing myself to my own body. My heart starts to beat faster, a flutter of anticipation mixed with nerves.
The mirrors catch every movement, reflecting my flushed skin from a dozen angles.
For once, I don't look away. Instead, I let myself watch as my palm slides lower, over the swell of my breast, across the plane of my stomach.
My skin feels warm, alive in a way that has nothing to do with the shower steam still lingering in the air.
The bullet vibrator sits cool and innocent in my other hand.
I press the button, testing it against my fingertip.
The thing comes alive like an angry wasp.
Holy—.
The vibration travels up through my fingers, making my whole hand tingle with an intensity that's somewhere between "massage setting" and "small earthquake." The reviews weren't kidding—this thing has enough power to level a small building.
But my body is already responding in anticipation, heat pooling low in my belly, and I'm too committed to back out now. I slide the buzzing device lower, over my ribs, across my hip bone, following the path my other hand mapped moments before.
Okay, Tara. You've got this. Just... find the right spot and...
I guide it between my thighs, searching, and the moment it makes contact with my clit—
YELP!
It's like being struck by the world's most overstimulated tuning fork. Panicking, I quickly click the button repeatedly to turn it off but the wasp only gets angrier.
I scream not with pleasure but shock, and decide to fling the thing across the room in pure self-preservation.
It lands with a soft thud behind my dresser, wedged perfectly between the wall and the mirror that leans against it, and keeps buzzing with the persistence of a provoked wasp nest.
Turn off! I will it silently, as if my brain can somehow remote-control the rebellious device.
It does not comply.
The sound fills the room—BZZZZZZZZ—a mechanical protest that's going to wake up my next house neighbors if I don't shut it. I scramble off the bed and crouch behind the dresser, trying to reach the thing with my fingers.
No luck. It's wedged tight, and the angle is impossible.
Plan B: broom handle. Which immediately turns into a jackhammer in my hands.
"Just turn off!" I hiss at the offending object, jabbing at it desperately.
The broom handle slips, I lose my balance, and I end up sprawled on the floor in nothing but a towel, wrestling with cleaning supplies while my bedroom sounds like a construction site.
This is definitely not how the website said this would go.
After another minute of increasingly creative contortions, I finally manage to wedge the broom handle at just the right angle to knock the vibrator free. It falls to the floor and rolls under the bed, still shrieking.
I army-crawl after it, grab it, and fumble for the button until blessed silence returns.
I collapse on the floor, clutching the tiny demon like it personally insulted me. The ceiling mirror reflects back a disheveled, towel-clad woman who just lost a wrestling match to a lipstick-sized toy.
Well, I think grimly, that's enough personal growth for one night.
My body is still humming from the brief, shocking contact, unsatisfied and thoroughly frustrated. The mirrors show me flushed skin and hard nipples, with a restless energy that won’t burn off on its own.
I need to run.
I yank on a pair of running shorts and a tank top, not bothering with anything else except a supportive sports bra.
The last thing I need on top of all this is a bad case of nipple rash. My skin is already prickling, my nerves shot. The night air will clear my head, burn off the adrenaline, and definitely not remind me of all the ways I'm spectacularly bad at being a normal adult woman with normal adult needs.
The cottage door closes behind me with a soft click, and I take off down the quiet street at an easy pace.
Cedar Falls at night is a different creature than during the day.
The streets are empty except for the occasional porch light or the blue glow of someone's television through drawn curtains.
The air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from someone's fireplace and the faint sweetness of the last autumn flowers in Mrs. Patterson's garden.
I love this time of night. The world feels manageable when it's just me and the rhythm of my feet against pavement, my breath visible in small puffs, my heartbeat steady and strong.
Two blocks from home, the familiar peace shatters.
The feeling starts as a prickle between my shoulder blades, a wrongness that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I've learned to trust this instinct—it's kept me alive and hidden for three years.
I think someone's watching me.
Perfect. From sex toy failure to horror-movie footsteps. My life.
I don't turn around. Instead, I adjust my pace slightly, listening for footsteps that match mine. There—about twenty feet back, trying to stay quiet but not quite managing it on the leaf-strewn sidewalk.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my breathing steady. Stay calm. Think.
I take a casual glance over my shoulder, pretending to check for cars before crossing the street. There's a figure in the shadows between two streetlights, too far away to make out details but definitely there. Definitely following.
Shit.
Have I been found?
I pick up my pace, not quite running but moving with purpose toward the downtown area. More lights, more potential witnesses, more chances for help if I need it.
The footsteps behind me quicken to match.
My mind races through possibilities. Could be a random jogger, pacing with me. I breathe in harder.
But my gut says this isn't random.
I turn down the familiar alley that cuts between Main Street and the residential area—a shortcut I've used hundreds of times, well-lit and safe.
Except tonight it doesn't feel safe.
The footsteps are closer now, no longer trying to be subtle. Heavy boots against concrete, moving with purpose.
I break into a run.
Behind me, he gives up pretending and runs too.
The alley mouth is fifty feet away, bright lights and the safety of Main Street beyond. I can make it. I'm fast, and I know these streets like the back of my hand.
I take two long strides, my lungs burning, the pavement slapping under my sneakers. Freedom is a breath away.
A hand clamps down on my arm, wrenching me to a stop.
The surprise drives the breath out of me; I spin around, ready to fight, and find myself face-to-face with a man in an expensive suit that absolutely doesn't belong in Cedar Falls.
He's got the kind of polished, predatory look I remember from my father's business associates—the ones who smiled with too many teeth and always seemed to be calculating something behind their eyes.
Recognition hits like a sledgehammer—table seven, wrong questions, cash payment, no name for his order. Not a traveling salesman. A hunter.
"Taralyn," he says between his panting, and my blood turns to ice water.
Not my name. My real name.
"Your father wants you home."
I kick him in the balls.