Chapter 22
VAGINA TAKE THE WHEEL
RORIE
The cursor on my screen blinks with the passive-aggressive energy of someone who thinks they’re better than me. My notes for the Pitchpocalypse are a messy doc of half-baked ideas, floating buzzwords, and the desperate scent of burnout.
Luxury tailored experience. Immersive branding strategies. Elevated consumer pathways.
Blah, blah, blah.
It all sounds important. Looks strategic. But it’s smoke and mirrors. There’s no spark. No heartbeat. Only a pile of marketing jargon held together with duct tape and denial.
I spin my pen, hoping the motion will conjure up some amazing idea. Instead of inspiration, my mind, bless its twisted little heart, keeps drifting back to Nolan Rhodes.
Rooftop banter.
Boy Band bar trivia.
Asher’s penthouse.
Wine. That kiss.
“When I touch you, it won’t be casual.” He said it like it was both a threat and a prophecy.
How am I supposed to write a strategy deck like that didn’t melt my spine?
Dropping my pen, I blink at my screen like it might erase all the dirty thoughts swirling in my head.
Nolan’s broad build. How he fills out a pair of jeans. How he carries himself with a level of self-assurance that suggests he has never—not once—disappointed a woman in bed.
And if the very solid evidence pressed against my hip during that kiss was any indication…
Let’s just say I’m suddenly very curious about the specifics of Nolan “How Big is His Dick” Rhodes, and what he might be working with below the belt.
Unfortunately, that curiosity is not helpful. Or healthy.
It’s made me into a woman with a vibrator and a vendetta. God, I’m so emotionally unstable and stupidly horny.
This is stupid! I have a pitch to prepare.
I shove back from the desk. I do not have time to lose myself in thoughts about licking, sucking or fucking Nolan “Please Let Me Do All Three” Rhodes.
I snatch my coffee and take a long sip like caffeine can somehow course-correct my entire personality. I need to keep things in the lane. The unbothered, definitely-not-horny lane.
Buzz. Carl.
What’s up, Buttercup?
Working
Me too!
What did you say you do for a living?
I thrive in corporate chaos.
That sounds...soul-sucking.
Oh, it is. But I’m elite at it. The chaos bends to me. (Well, most days)
Modest, aren’t you?
Honest. Now YOU. What’s it like being the reigning queen of snark?
Exhausting.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
Do you ever take breaks from all that royalty? Or is it a 24/7 gig?
I’ll let you know if I ever get a break. So far, it’s been a one-woman show.
Well, consider this your commercial break. Popcorn optional. Crown stays on.
Ugh, please don’t segue into unsolicited life advice about “letting go” and “living in the moment.”
Tempting… but no. I know better than to poke royalty with a motivational quote.
I’ll just say this—whatever this weird little texting thing is? It’s fun.
Thanks for that, TF.
Totally agree. And weird little texting thing? Rude.
I prefer exclusive, unhinged, yet supportive pen pal.
Trademark it immediately.
So, what do YOU do for work?
Professional taste-tester for mac and cheese brands.
Respect. True hero of the people.
If you weren’t royalty or landing career-making opportunities, what would you do…if you could do anything?
Honestly? Something with authors.
Like my mom used to.
A writer?
Not sure. Possibly.
That sounds like something worth discovering.
Maybe.
When you’re ready, I’m here for the beta reads.
And the mac and cheese reviews.
I laugh. My heart squeezes. And I think: what if we met?
Would it ruin everything?
What if we already have? And don’t know it.
Wouldn’t that be crazy?
I FaceTime Maya. She picks up on the second ring, her flawless face filling the screen. Hair is sleek. Blue hoops. Latte in hand. Judgey energy locked and loaded.
“Please tell me this is work-related and not you having another crisis over a man.”
I set my phone against a stack of books and sigh. “Okay, one—it’s not a crisis. And two—how the hell do you always know?”
“Because I’m clairvoyant. Also, you’ve got that look. Like your brain’s hosting a late night special called Horny and Confused. Spill.”
“What if I met my mystery texter?”
Her latte freezes midair. “What?”
I press my lips together.
Maya narrows her eyes so fast her face practically locks into a scowl. “Wait, wait. Are you telling me you’re actually contemplating moving into a visual phase with a stranger who could absolutely be the villain in a Netflix documentary? Please tell me you are not that girl.”
I cross my arms and glare. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, it never is.”
“He’s not some creeper in a basement, Maya.”
“Yeah? What do you really know about him that isn’t suspiciously charming?”
“He’s funny. And weirdly sweet. And his shirt was glittery.”
Maya sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Girl, don’t you dare let a funny t-shirt distract you from reality.”
I open my mouth, then close it.
Because reality?
It’s standing outside my apartment wearing a backwards hat, lips tasting like heat and red wine, eyes dark enough to drown in.
Maya catches the shift in my expression like a hawk. “Hold on. What was that face?”
“What face?”
“That was a ‘there’s something I’m not telling you because I’m still working it out in my head and it involves tongue’ face.”
I fidget with my sleeve. “It’s nothing.”
Her brows shoot up. “You kissed him, didn’t you?”
I go still. “Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about Carl.”
Maya slams her coffee on the table. “You kissed Nolan Rhodes and you didn’t tell me?”
“It wasn’t planned!” I hiss. “It just… happened. One minute we were drinking wine and then we ran into Quinn—and he’s fucking engaged by the way.”
“Engaged?”
“Yeah.”
She gapes at me. “Okay, we obviously have some communication issues we need to discuss, but we’ll save that for later. Right now…I’m still processing the fact that you made out with Nolan and didn’t tell me.”
I sigh.
Her eyes narrow. “And why the fuck are you even thinking about meeting Carl when you’re kissing Nolan Goddamn Rhodes.”
“Because Nolan is real,” I snap. “He’s flesh and blood and complicated and terrifying and not safe at all. Carl is safe. He’s a voice and a vibe. He makes me laugh. He doesn’t know how I look when I’m falling apart.”
I didn’t mean for that last part to slip out. Nolan doesn’t know me either. But he’s seen my cracks. That day at Stanfield I was split open.
“I need some answers, Rorie.”
“You and me both.”
Her face softens. “Look, as far as meeting your mystery texter…he’s safe…until he’s not. The second you start bending your own rules—no oversharing, no flirting—you give him the upper hand. It’s a slippery slope to heartbreak or homicide.”
“Geez, dramatic much?”
“The last time you gave someone too much access, he used it to hurt you and now he’s with—excuse me, engaged, I guess—to a girl who probably orders extra ranch with everything.”
“Exactly.” I bury my face in my hands. “But it’s not like I’m proposing to the guy. It’s nice. He makes me feel like I’m not doing life wrong.”
Her expression softens, but only a fraction. “Be careful, okay? I swear, if I have to rescue you from a warehouse, I’m gonna be pissed.”
I laugh. “That won’t happen.”
“Mhm.” She shoots me a look. “And as far as Nolan goes—”
“It was nothing,” I cut her off. “Just hormones, buried emotions and a little misplaced curiosity.”
Maya arches a brow. “Yeah? Then why are you blushing like a virgin?”
“Speaking of blushing like a virgin,” I say, shifting gears. “Have you texted Asher?”
Maya’s cheeks go pink like a neon sign.
“Oh my god, you did.”
Her groan could register on the Richter scale. “I hate you.”
“No, you love me. Your turn to spill.”
“Fine,” she huffs. “We may have had drinks after the Four Leaf Hotel.”
“At the bar?”
“In his suite.”
“MA’AM.”
“It was innocent!”
I lean in. “Define innocent.”
Maya is looking away, trying to avoid eye contact. After a beat, she mumbles, “He walked me to my car.”
“Did he kiss you?”
A pause.
“Maya.”
“Yes.”
I slap the table. “Maya Justine Torres.”
“Shhh!” she whisper-screams.
“Was it good?”
“It was… really good. Like, insanely good.”
“I knew it. He looks like he’d be a phenomenal kisser. Describe it. Slowly.”
There’s a wicked little grin tugging at her lips. “He smells like whiskey and rain. Tastes like it too.”
“Dear God,” I say.
“And his hands,” she breathes. “Big. Warm. Just rough enough.”
I fan myself. “Did he do the thing?”
Her eyes flick to mine, and I know exactly what she’s about to say. She nods. “He did the thing.”
I squeal.
“His hand. My jaw. Thumb tracing my skin.”
“Awe.”
“A deep kiss followed by the slow draw back, lingering long enough to make me lose my mind.” Maya is swooning as she describes the intimate moment.“Mmmm…it was…perfection.”
“What happened after?”
“He sent me home.”
I blink. “That’s it?”
“I know!” she cries. “What if it was one moment only, and now it’s over?”
“Did you text him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s Asher Cross. He should text me.” She laughs, but it fades. “He hasn’t said a word, Rorie. Nothing.”
I study her. “Then you should reach out.”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t sit here doubting yourself. May, he kissed you. Not anyone else.”
She nods, quiet now.
I frown, not liking where her thoughts are going. “Maybe he’s trying to figure out how to go there with you without completely damaging his career. Because let’s face it, dating you in secret forever isn’t exactly an option.”
She exhales, nodding but still looking uncertain. “I don’t know, Rorie. I… I can’t get past the feeling that I don’t belong in his world.”
I study her. “That’s exactly why he’s interested in you. Because you’re not part of that world.”
Her eyes narrow. “Okay, back to you. What’s next with Nolan Rhodes?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“I’m serious. We had wine. We talked. We kissed. He left.”
“Yeah, and you haven’t stopped thinking about him since.”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
“Exactly,” she says. “Don’t lie to yourself, babe. You like him.”
“Nolan’s a complication. I can’t like him.”
“There you go…lying to yourself again.”
“Which is exactly why we’re going out tonight.” I wink.
“Where?”
“Does it matter? I need to reset. I need to purge whatever twisted, confusing emotions are battling for space in my head. I need to get laid.”
“Um—what?”
“Yes. It’s all suddenly so clear,” I tell her. “The reason my brain is on overdrive is because I have so much pent up inside. You know? I need one meaningless night. No strings. No complications. Fill my horny bucket and move on. Get the poison out, you know?”
“Rorie, I don’t think—”
I send an invite to Jeremy to join the group chat. He pops on immediately.
“We’re going out tonight,” I say. “Two reasons. One, we need to celebrate landing Pitchpocalypse. Two, I need to be carefree and frisky.”
Jeremy taps his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness, his eyes glinting with anticipation. “And when you say carefree and frisky…”
“She means she needs to get laid,” Maya deadpans, not even looking up from her phone.
“All in.” Jeremy claps once and rubs his hands together like a cartoon villain with a flawless plan. “Let’s go make morally questionable, potentially reputation-damaging choices!”
“Exactly,” I say, already walking out the door. “Tonight, I’m turning off the part of my brain that overthinks every damn thing and letting my vagina take the wheel.”
“Yes!” Jeremy points at the screen.
“No romance,” I add, holding up a finger. “No feelings. Just sin without names, numbers, and follow-ups.”
Jeremy nods. “Heat, poor judgment, and plausible deniability?”
I grin. “The holy trinity.”
Maya groans. “You two are actual demons.”
“And proud,” we say in unison.