Page 8 of Blood Money

CHAPTER TWO

CARMEN

Waking up this morning, I realized last night wasn’t just a dream. It was real, and Bradley is gone. For a minute, I thought I was sad losing him, and maybe I am, but I’m sadder at the fact I don’t have that distraction, because in reality, that’s all he ever was for me.

I don’t see men as anything more than someone who will leave. My dad taught me that at a young age, and it’s something that hasn’t left me. And now Bradley has proved me right too.

I walk into the kitchen and slide onto the barstool, willing the fucked-up thoughts to go away as William cooks with his back to me. I made sure to stay locked away because I knew my dad would be leaving, and after Bradley saying goodbye in his own way last night, I wasn’t sure I could handle yet another goodbye.

It hurts knowing I’m not good enough for someone to stay.

“Hungry?” William asks over his shoulder.

I shrug. “Depends. Whatcha cooking?”

“Just some pork chops and gravy.”

“Sure. I’ll eat,” I answer as my phone vibrates in my pocket.

Maybe it was out of desperation, but last night I downloaded a dating app. Not to actually date though. I just want sex. Because if someone can’t be bothered to actually care enough to stay, they at least care enough to fuck me.

I’ve always had a thing for guys old enough to be my dad. Maybe it’s my deep-rooted daddy issues, or maybe I just can’t stand stupid, little douchebags. I don’t care about what car Mommy and Daddy bought them or the fancy school Grandpa was an alumnus in. All I want is good dick with minimal talk. Something older men are great at delivering. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve fooled around with guys my age, like Bradley, but it’s always the same. They want someone to cheer them on at their football games or hop house parties with them, and they’re too jealous. I’d rather not, if I’m being honest.

Feelings are too complicated. I’d rather put that shit on the back burner because in the end, if you acknowledge them, someone will get hurt. And I refuse to be that person.

I start scrolling through all the messages, only reading the small preview without opening the threads, ignoring all the ones asking how big my tits are or what hotel I want to fuck at. They won’t be worth a shit. When the last message shows a mean-looking dog with a man’s hand on its head, I stop. I’m not sure if it’s the jet-black, angry dog with cropped ears or the veiny, strong-looking hand on top of its head, but I open the message without reading the preview.

Stallion – No strings?

I chuckle and look up, making sure William is still occupied cooking, then start to type. I reply, ignoring his question. It’s stated in my little bio I want no strings.

Spitfire– Mean looking dog.

Almost immediately, the green online bubble pops up, and dots dance across the bottom of the screen, indicating he’s typing.

Stallion– He came straight from hell on the devil’s back.

Spitfire – Is that supposed to scare me? Because it doesn’t. I have a love for bad things, including devil dogs.

The dots dance, then stop, then dance again for what feels like forever.

Stallion – So, no strings? Or is that just something girls your age put in a bio to lure boys in?

Way to change the subject and get straight to the point,I think to myself, but I roll with it.

Spitfire – Girls my age? What is that supposed to mean? How old are you?

Stallion – 26.

I need a no string’s situation.

And someone who can meet when I call.

I give William another glance. I don’t think hooking up with random strangers is the smartest idea I’ve ever had, but what could it hurt? The mysterious intrigue has already pulled me in and makes me want to ask more. And even better, it’s keeping my mind occupied with shit that doesn’t involve my real life. Online, I can be whoever I want.

It would be nice if he was older, but twenty-six is a decent age. Maybe he’s matured and knows what he wants. And hopefully, those wants reflect mine.

Sex, not love.

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