Page 66 of For a Goode Time Call…
“So do you, honey,” she said, her voice quiet. “You deserve it.”
I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, grabbed my purse—which still had my bra and thong in it. I tossed them into the hamper, stuffed my feet into a pair of ballet flats, and glanced back at Mom.
“Thank you, Mom.”
She shook her head. “You’re my daughter. I love you. I want you to be happy, or barring that, at least okay. And right now, babe, you’re not okay.” She stood, wrapped me in a tight mom-hug. “And that’s okay. We’ll figure it out. I’m always here, and I’m always on your side, sweetheart.”
“Even when I fuck up?”
She pulled back, palms on my cheeks. “Especiallythen, darling.”
I sniffed back a tear. “Dammit, Mom. Quit being saccharine.”
She just laughed, and popped me on the butt. “There’s the Cassie I know.”
I laughed and paused to kiss her on the cheek. “You’re a good mommy.”
“Go figure yourself out, kiddo.”
I smiled, and wondered if she could see that I was scared stupid. “Yeah, I guess we’ll see, huh?”
I walked over to Ink’s, in the dark, alone. It was a couple of miles, but it was good. Exercise for my leg, time to think. Fresh air, after three days in bed, like a loser. Wallowing. Hating myself. Missing Ink. Refusing to think about how much I missed him and how badly I’d fucked up by panicking and running like I had.
I still wasn’t entirely sure, even now, that I had the courage to walk into his house and talk to him after leaving like I had. I didn’t know what I would say. Or even what I wanted.
All I knew was, Mom didn’t raise me to be the kind of woman who would run out on a man in the middle of the night after earth-shaking sex, after said man had held me as I bawled my eyes out in a real-deal nervous breakdown, ugly crying in a full-body dry heaving sort of way. After said man had made it very clear he was not someone to walk out on, so if I wanted what we’d done, I couldn’t walk out.
And I’d walked out.
I found myself at his door, looking in through the glass storm door at the darkened interior. Hesitating. He must be asleep.
But I was here, and I wasn’t going back, not now. I couldn’t.
It was hard to breathe.
I quietly opened the door, and shut it behind me. I listened and heard the soft steady huff of a sleeping Ink. Why was I here? What was I going to do?
Wake him and be like, hey, I’m sorry I ran like a scared little girl?
I saw his phone on the counter, and an idea struck me. Dumb, and silly, but I couldn’t stop myself once the idea was in my head.
Ink didn’t bother with a passcode, I knew. He only had a handful of numbers in his contacts, no email, didn’t text, rarely took pictures.
I went into his bathroom, closed the door, turned on the light, and spent the next several minutes doing something I never anticipated I would do, ever.
I took…salacious photos of myself.
Started with me, clothed.
Then with my shirt off. Then with my shirt on and my pants off. Then just in my bra and underwear. Different poses, some awkward AF and which I immediately deleted, others that took a few tries to get right and which ended up…good.
Then I took my bra off and took more of myself topless, in just a pair of light gray high cut briefs.
I took those off, and took even more of me totally nude. When I had taken what I felt like was enough, I put all my clothes back on, and then went through and selected all the photos and put them in a hidden album.
I wondered if he’d find it. Probably not. Would probably need a hint or two.
I wasn’t sure why I’d done that. Just that I wanted to, so I did. Because the man needed to get his sexuality back, and the taste of it that I’d gotten was…so impossibly good I knew I’d be haunted the rest of my life by it. If nothing else ever happened between us, I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that what I’d had with Ink that night was far and away the best thing that had ever happened to me, and probably ever would happen.
