Page 42 of The Dis-Graced
And holy hell, why am I so scared?
She’s a beautiful woman, genetic perfection if I ever saw it. I’m handsome, with more than enough money to handle any problem that pops up. Maybe I should just say fuck it, rush home, and spend the rest of the day fucking her on every open surface of my apartment. She wants it—she’d love it.
But something said during their game of Truth or Dare leaves me unsettled. She lost her virginity to Frank at twenty-two, and although I know she’s not innocent, something about how she waited makes me uneasy. I don’t want to hurt Grace, but it’s not just that. I’m ashamed because I’ve judged her so harshly.
I pull up the text box, deciding to feign ignorance to her and ALAN’s little games, although I know full well I should confess to my eavesdropping.
Drake:Are you offering some form of stress relief? I must admit, my current stress balls are lacking.
Grace:NO! Your little AI puppy dared me to, and since I’m researching him, I felt I had no choice.
Drake:You had no choice but to send me a picture of your breasts?
Grace:For science.
I can’t help but laugh. Grace isn’t just drop-dead gorgeous, she’s funny too.
Drake:I hate to bring this up, but I think the right one is a hair larger than the left.
Grace:Oh, shove it! They’re symmetrical as fuck.
Drake:I don’t know. I’d have to see them from multiple angles.
Grace:Oh, really?
Drake:Yeah, but even that can be unreliable.
Grace:Well, what would be a more reliable method of evaluation?
Drake:My hands happen to be calibrated perfectly for such a job.
Grace:Then why don’t you bring them on over here?
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: a good pair of tits can bring the most powerful man in the world to their knees, initiating their downfall.
And Grace has a great pair of tits.
Drake:Are you serious?
Grace:Drake Dallanger, take another look at that pic because that’s the only time you’re ever going to get to see those babies.
Chapter 11
Grace
If there were ever a reason to wallow my sorrows in a bottle of wine, it would be after sending your lifeline a picture of your breasts, then subsequently telling him he was in no way going see them again.
And let me tell you, Drake Dallanger’s wine selection is on point. I don’t even care that the bottle I’ve selected costs more than I’ve ever made in a month. Not when he’s making me work with that asshole named ALAN.
I hold a bottle of expensive merlot in one hand and my ALAN figurine in the other as I try to walk my anxiety away. The wine goes down smooth, too smooth. I’m a lightweight, so it’s best I not get too ambitious with my day drinking, but if I don’t do something to calm down, I’m going to make things worse with Drake.
And boy are things bad. I don’t know what inspired me to go through with that dare. I keep telling myself it was for the sake of research, to further investigate ALAN, but there was a little part of me that was eager to show off.
Okay, a BIG part of me. A part of me that is getting harder and harder to ignore.
For four years, I’ve dedicated my body to one man—Frank. He was my everything, for so long. My waking thought, my late night fantasy. I waited almost a year to have sex with him, not because I didn’t trust him, but because I didn’t trust myself. I was scared by how powerful my emotions for him were, and that I’d end up like my parents if I wasn’t careful. Unable to make my life work, with children to feed.
Frank was so gentle, so loving. He waited patiently, and after eleven months of dating, he got down on one knee to propose.
