13. Sweet Cherries, Sour Rules #2
I rush to open it, my fingers unsteady as I read.
Cherry
Online and didn’t text me? Should I be jealous?
A sharp exhale leaves me, part relief, part something I don’t want to name. I press my tongue against the inside of my cheek. Come on, Aaron. It’s something she says to every customer, a line to make them feel special, to keep them engaged. It’s smart, strategic. It’s her job.
She probably doesn’t even remember me. And if she does, it’s just good customer service, not...not real.
But still, I smile. Smile like none of that is true.
Chief.728
I was looking through your pictures, actually.
Cherry
Do you like the new one?
Fuck yeah, I like it. She couldn’t look bad if she tried. In each shot, she’s perfect—sexy in a way that throws me completely off balance.
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I like all of them.
Cherry
Be a good boy and come in your hand for me?
My body responds immediately, a slow pulse of need spreading through me.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t .
Cherry
Unless you wanna talk?
My lips curl up. Talk . There’s nothing wrong with talking, right? Nothing wrong with hearing her voice. In fact, I should check on her—something her mom doesn’t seem too interested in doing. It’s the responsible thing to do.
Oh, who am I kidding.
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I’d love to.
A call notification pops up on my screen, and I straighten against the couch before answering. As soon as it connects, I mute my mic. There’s no doubt in my mind that if I spoke, she’d recognize my voice in an instant.
The screen buffers for a second before she appears, nestled against a mountain of pillows in varying shades of blush and ivory, her bed draped in rumpled cream-colored sheets that look like they’ve been slept in all day.
Her hair is loose in silky waves, and she wears a thin-strapped tank top that clings to her curves.
She’s more Charlotte than Cherry. Relaxed, tired, smiling. She’s okay.
I feel better already.
“ Aww . I don’t get to hear your voice today?” she teases.
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Sorry. Is this okay anyway?
“Of course, baby.” She leans back against the pale rose, tufted velvet headboard. The golden amber glow of her bedside lamp casts warm shadows across the mauve walls as she shifts so one leg folds beneath her, the other stretching out in front of her. “I just miss the sound of your voice.”
You sound so pretty when you come.
I try to shoo the thought away as she asks, “So, how are you feeling?”
She’s being polite or actually concerned after my performance a couple of weeks back. Whatever it is, the question forces me to stop and think.
How am I?
Since she’s been in my life—better. Hanging by a thread. Sexually frustrated. Split between obsessing over her and obsessing over how obsessed I am with her. Either way, she takes up so much space in my mind that most other thoughts have gone out the window.
Eventually, I settle on:
Chief.728
Happy to see you. You?
She places a delicate hand over her chest. “Happy you’re here with me. I’m all alone at home.” She pinches the fabric of her top. “Do you want me to take my clothes off?”
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No. Let’s just talk.
A surprised laugh escapes her and she props her chin on her hand, eyes glinting with intrigue. “Sounds good. What do you want to talk about?”
Honestly? Her. I want to use this alter ego to ask her all the things I can’t ask her in real life. I want to hear her talk without worrying about how I’m looking at her, or what’s appropriate to say and what isn’t.
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Tell me about you. If you want.
“About me, huh?” She hums, tapping a manicured finger against her lips. “Let’s see. I play the cello, collect postcards, and love vanilla ice cream.”
I scratch the side of my head. Cello? Postcards? I mean...I guess it’s technically possible. I don’t know her well enough to say for sure those facts aren’t true. But they don’t feel like her.
Chief.728
How many lies did you just tell?
Her eyes widen in mock innocence before she throws her head back. “Two.”
Unbelievable .
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If I guess the true one, will you answer a question? For real?
Her lips curl as if she likes the challenge. “You got it.”
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Vanilla ice cream.
A pause. Then her mouth parts before she bursts into laughter, her whole body shaking with it. “Damn, you’re good.” She waves me on. “What’s the question?”
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What happens if you like a guy? If you end up dating, or he becomes your boyfriend?
As she scans the text, her lips twitch. Her gaze flickers to the camera as her teeth sink into her bottom lip. “Are you asking because you’re afraid I’ll ghost you, or because you want to be my boyfriend?”
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Covering all bases.
She shakes her head lightly, teeth sinking into her bottom lip like she enjoys me flirting with her. It’s mesmerizing, how her reactions play out so clearly. No poker face. It makes me ache to see them in person—to make her smile just like this, to make her feel as special as she is.
“Well, let’s see.” She draws her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
“I guess I’d stop camming. Of course, I do this for the money, but also because it’s fun.
And I don’t think I’d enjoy it if I were committed to someone.
” She rolls some hair around her finger.
“Luckily for you, I don’t have boyfriends. ”
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Never?
“Never.” She shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I stick by three rules that pretty much make that impossible.”
Three rules. I don’t know what they are, but I already want to break them.
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Let’s hear them.
“Number one.” She playfully widens her eyes. “No kissing.”
No kissing. My stomach twists—I hate it.
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Right, right. I’m familiar with Pretty Woman.
She clicks her tongue. “Of course, that rule does not apply to a young Richard Gere. Or Julia Roberts.”
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Reasonable.
“Rule number two. No sleeping together. Too complicated—cuddles, breakfast, morning breath. Faaaar too intimate.”
What’s wrong with intimacy? My fingers twitch with the urge to type the question, but she keeps going before I can.
“And third rule . . . no sleeping together.”
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You said that one already.
She tucks some hair behind her ear. “No, Cole. No sleeping together.”
Wait, what?
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As in . . . sex?
“As in sex.”
As in she never has sex? My brain short-circuits for a moment, trying to compute this new information.
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You mean . . . until the right guy comes along?
She cracks a grin. “I’m not waiting for Prince Charming to give my flower to, if that’s what you’re asking. In fact, my flower’s long gone. It’s probably flattened out inside a book and dried up, ready to be hung in some old lady’s house.”
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So what do you mean?
She hesitates, something shifting in her expression until she looks more vulnerable. For the first time since we got on this call, she seems almost...uncertain.
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You don’t have to tell me, Cherry.
“It’s not a big deal.” She clears her throat, dropping her gaze for a second before looking up again.
“It might sound...stupid, but sex is really important to me. Not foreplay—I love messing around with men, having fun. But I find the act of penetration to be...emotional. The feeling of someone... filling me up ”—she bites her bottom lip, and I wonder if she’s thinking about me.
About Aaron, not Cole, telling her those exact words just a few days ago—“pushing inside me. Of being completely open and connected to another person. It’s not something I can do with just anyone. ”
It doesn’t sound stupid at all. Casual sex has never done much for me. The physical part is easy, but without a deeper connection, it always feels...awkward. Empty.
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I get it. There’s a lot of vulnerability in sex.
“Exactly. No kissing, no sex, and no sharing the same bed for the night equals no vulnerability.” She tips her head back against the pillows. “And therefore, no boyfriends.”
I’m oddly comforted by her admission, like she’s soothed the jealous part of me that doesn’t want to share her with anyone.
But she’s in her twenties—these are the years to fall hopelessly in love.
To be reckless, to make mistakes, to chase something breathtaking even if it terrifies you.
To have nights that mean nothing and mornings that mean everything.
To give your heart away, even if you don’t know what to do with it afterward.
Fingers hovering over the keys, I wonder for a long moment what to say and watch her nestled in her own space.
A painting of a coastal landscape hangs above the bed, a pale blue duvet is bunched on one side, and the nightstand is cluttered with a half-empty glass of water and a closed book.
Not the silk sheets from her photos—not the polished persona.
Just Charlotte. Real and unfiltered.
Eventually, I settle on,
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Don’t you miss it though?
“Miss what?”
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You know . . . the stuff people do when they’re dating.
She raises a skeptical brow. “Like what? Cuddling ?” She rolls her big, beautiful eyes. “Slow dancing in the kitchen? Showering together and making dinner after a long day?”
She throw them out like they’re ridiculous, but none of that sounds bad . In fact, I miss it.
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Yeah. Stuff like that.
She snorts, eyes flicking away. “Nope. Don’t miss it at all.”
It’s a lie. I can see it in the way she won’t look at the camera. In the quiet ache that slips into her voice despite her best efforts to bury it.
But I can sense it’s better to let this go, so I type:
Chief.728
Maybe the right guy will come along and barrel through your rules.
“Maybe,” she says, a grin playing on her lips. “But until then, Cole, this cherry is yours.”