Page 34 of Bride By Initiation

Well, I'd know their number.

There are no names on the photos, only one through twelve. I'd be attracted to half of them if I saw them on the street. The others, I'd never give a second glance.

I still don't know what Sylvia meant when she stated one of them would choose me and I would choose them. Yet the fact these men are naked in their photos, and one displays their erections, gives me the impression she's insinuating I'll be sleeping with someone in this binder.

That's not happening.

Number six, a Middle Eastern man who's one of the most well-endowed, stares back at me with his hazel eyes glowing, a confident expression, and a thin scar running from his eye to his chin.

I study the photo for several minutes, then mutter, "Gotcha!"

The end of his scar widens, and it's a new detail I hadn't noticed before. I study it another moment and add it to my mental list about number six.

My heart races faster, and I flip to the next man, unsure why I'm trying to memorize everything about these men.

I've already decided that I'm not going through with this bid or initiation ritual. As intrigued as I am, it sounds like a cult. Besides, there's no proof they know anything about my father.

How did they know I want answers I can't get from my dad?

It's the lingering question I can't figure out. No matter how hard I try to let it go, it's the thing that keeps bringing me back to the photos.

Number seven's Asian. His eyes hold a dark mystery. Evil flirts with his expression, but it's borderline soft, as if he's a bad boy but could be a true friend.

Don't kid yourself,I scold myself.

I stare at his torso, then pick up my pen. I draw the shape of his birthmark, weaving around his abs as best as I can. I make several attempts to get closer to the one on him and finally move on.

Eight steals my breath. He always does. Everything about him reminds me of Sean. He wears his dirty-blond hair the same way, just slightly over his eye. I can almost see him shoving it to the side the way Sean does. His crooked nose screams it's been broken, possibly multiple times. I smile every time I see it. Over the years, I've witnessed several of Sean's fights where his nose has gotten smashed. It's a fighter's risk, and the scars on eight's knuckles tell me he's no stranger to landing punches on men.

I pause longer than I should on him until the butterflies in my stomach need to stop. To make myself suffer further, I pick up my phone. I scroll to Sean's name and click on his picture.

My eyes drift from eight to Sean, over and over. I make mental notes on the differences between the two men, about things I can see in the photos and things I know about Sean without seeing a picture.

Eight has a scar on his chest, ripping through his nipple and stopping an inch from his belly button.

I've seen Sean shirtless enough to know he has a scar on the back of his shoulder in the shape of a half-moon.

Eight has a mole near his lip.

Sean has a mole on the top of his foot.

Eight's arm sleeve is on his right arm.

Sean's is on his left.

Eight has a snake tattoo on his lower back.

Sean has the O'Malley family cross across his entire back.

Eight appears tall but smaller than Sean.

Sean's feet and hands are bigger, and I assume so is his cock. Not because of the stereotype about big hands and feet but because his erections have been pushed against my stomach too many times for me to count. And eight doesn't have anything above average below the waist.

My eyes turn blurry from studying the binder, yet I can't stop. I turn the page to number nine.

The doorbell rings, tearing me out of my haze. I turn and stare at it, frozen, unsure if I should let anyone in.

Is it them?

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