The Bet by Max Monroe

Tuesday, March 6th

Sophie

My legs feel like lead and my arms are sore, and opening my eyes feels as though I’m doing it under a heavy blanket. It takes me a minute to come into any kind of awareness, but once I do, memories hit me with a vengeance.

I’m tired, I’m sated, and holy hot sex, I cannot believe all the things that happened last night.

Scouring the sheets next to me with tentative fingers, I hope with all my might that this doesn’t have to be super awkward. I mean, we’re adults, right? So what if we got a little wild and spent the night together without me even knowing his last name?

It’s not a big deal.

It’s not a big deal.

Holy aching vageen, this is kind of a big deal.

Let’s be real here. This isn’t something I typically do. I’m not a casual dater, and I’m sure as hell not the woman who brings an exotic dancer to her house and sleeps with him.

Cripes. And now I have to get this guy out of here. Plus, he knows where I live!

When the sweep of my arm is unsuccessful in making contact, I squeeze my eyes shut tight one last time before releasing them. The light of my room is stagnant, the sun clearly having made its ascent into the sky a while ago. Tentatively, I turn my gaze from the window to the bed, but instead of hard, muscled flesh and the smell of man, all I find are the slightly rumpled remnants of his sleep spot.

My eyebrows draw together, and I shove up to sitting. My heart starts to pound involuntarily in my chest.

Did he leave? Or is he just, like, in the bathroom or something?

The door to my en suite bath is partially shut, so I lean almost comically in that direction and redirect all my focus to my ears. They ring with the effort to catch any sort of minuscule noises, effectively blocking out the possibility of actually hearing them.

Frustrated, I sigh and climb from the bed, stumbling a little when I realize just how raw I feel. My legs are fucking bowed, I think.

I rub at the top of my full feeling vagina, and my stomach flips over on itself with misspent excitement. I don’t know how she can even be considering taking another ride on the freaking baton-sized schlong from last night, but evidently, she’s got her own set of priorities.

Carefully, I waddle-walk over to the bathroom door, leaning into the jamb with my hand and listening intently. When twenty seconds go by without any noise, I push the door open.

Nothing. Only an empty bathroom and a sex-shower that now mocks me.

I turn immediately, stalking down the hallway as much as my aching kitty will let me, slamming the bedroom door behind me as I go.

Even the hall mocks me with her memories of the dirty things that occurred there, and I wrinkle my face into an expression of disgust.

“Shut up,” I tell the slutty hallway as I set foot into the living room.

I wish I could say I don’t jump out of my skin when the hallway answers, “I didn’t say anything.” But I do.

“Cripes!” I yell on a shriek, noticing my sister Belle sitting at my kitchen table like she belongs here. “What are you doing here?”

Belle glances up from the newspaper, shrugs, and then scoops up a bite of cereal—my cereal—and shoves it into her mouth. “Eating,” she says then, the word garbled slightly around Frosted Flakes.

“Yes, I can see that. But why are you doing it in my apartment?”

She shrugs again. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’ve lived here for years.”

“No. You used to live here, and then you married a guy named John—not sure if you remember him—and you moved out.”

“Trust me, I know. But living with a boy is weird sometimes. Like, he’s got a penis, you know?”

I snort. “Seeing as you’re a straight woman, I kind of thought that was a selling point.”

It sure as hell sold my soul to the one-night-stand devil last night.

“Yeah. I don’t know how to explain it.”

She goes back to reading and eating cereal like our conversation is done, and I’m so flabbergasted—and likely volatile thanks to having been snuck out on by Sir Sex-a-Lot—I smack her spoon right out of her hand, and it goes clanking to the floor.

“Hey!” she shrieks. “What did you do that for?”

“Where does John even think you are? Does he know you’re delusional?”

Belle rolls her eyes. “He thinks I’m running.”

“Has he even met you?”

My sister Belle may be skinny, but in her case, it’s entirely genetic. I swear she’s allergic to exercise.

“I told him I was on a new kick. It’s no big deal, geez.”

I let out an annoyed groan and head straight for the coffeepot. I don’t have the energy to get into all the things wrong with this. I mean, I know she and John have their own relationship and shit, but does she really think lying to him right out of the gate is a good idea?

Dr. Winters would have a field day with this.

Actually, she’d probably tell you to stay in your own lane and ask yourself why you’re so bothered this morning, of all mornings.

Almost as if she can read my mind, Belle fires back with twin-style mirror attitude. “What’s your deal this morning anyway? You seem super crabby.”

I stick out my tongue as I sit down at the table across from her with my coffee cup and sigh.

I really don’t want to get into all the details of this whole thing just yet. Not only is the sting of rejection a little too fresh, but there’s also a whole backstory with my therapist and her dating assignment that will undoubtedly cause some sort of a shit fit from my sister when she finds out I’ve been hiding my therapy appointments from her.

Thankfully, my house phone rings in a timely distraction, sending Belle into a whole other tirade. This one, however, is one I’m prepared to handle.

“What…what is that?”

I shake my head and shrug innocently as the phone continues to ring.

“Did you hook that thing back up?” Belle interrogates, jumping up from her seat.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I deny, just as my old-school answering machine picks up and starts to play my outgoing message.

“Hi, you’ve reached Sophie. I’m not here right now, or I am and I’m busy, but feel free to leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.” BEEEP.

“Oh my God, you dirty skank! I’m barely out of here, and you’ve already got that fucking thing hooked back up!” Belle yells.

I widen my eyes innocently as our sister Katelynn comes over the speaker. “Hey, hooker. Call me back. I’d call your cell, but my little shits are already tearing my house apart as we speak, so I don’t have the time. Byeeee.”

“Sophie!” Belle snips again. “I want an explanation.”

I shake my head with a laugh. “You don’t live here anymore, Belly. That means I can have whatever outdated technology I want, and you can’t stop me.”

“You’re helpless.”

I shrug. “I like it. So, sue me.”

“You know, maybe I will,” Belle says with narrowed eyes as she pours herself another cup of coffee. “John’s got this lawyer friend I could talk to.”

I snort.

Belle stalks back over to the table and sits down again, picking up her newspaper and opening it so dramatically it sends a crack through the air.

I shake my head behind the thin paper wall she’s formed and take another sip of the sacred bean juice.

“Oh my gosh,” Belle says suddenly, the change in her tone of voice catching my attention. Whatever it is, it seems unrelated to our tiff.

“What?”

“Isn’t this the guy who danced at my bachelorette party?”

Immediately, all the hair on my body stands on end and my vagina spasms. Isn’t what the guy? Is his underwear somewhere or something?

Frantic, I look around the room nonsensically, trying to find some sort of article that’s given away the fact that I slept with Jude last night. The notion is preposterous—this isn’t the kind of thing that’s easily deduced with hints like an episode of goddamn Blue’s Clues, but I’m nervous as all get-out.

“Look,” Belle finally says, seemingly ignoring my mental breakdown and shaking the paper. “Here. In the paper.”

“What?” I shriek, ripping the thin sheets from her hands and flipping them around to look.

Recognition hits me like a sock in the damn gut.

There, dead center and larger-than-life, Jude’s smiling face looks back at me, his full body shot showing him at ease and confident in a blue-gray suit with his hands tucked across his chest.

He looks drop-dead gorgeous and then some, and a sick twist in my stomach makes me feel a little like I’m going to throw up. Seeing him like this, the morning of his sneak-out after the hottest sex of my life?

This is a cruel one, even for a bitch like fate.

Agitated, I scour the article for pertinent information as quickly as I can.

Club Promoter Jude Winslow Brings Fresh Fun Back to Manhattan, the title reads.

After nearly a year of renovations on the old SoHo building, Jude Winslow says Club Craze is the next big thing in New York. “This is a place where people are going to line up to come,” Winslow said. “We’ve done some soft openings already, and the response has been amazing.”

This weekend, Winslow will close the club to the public again, welcoming the most elite private events specialists in the world for a marketing event. “The idea is to get some exclusive clientele interested in having their next big party here. It’s the perfect location, and I’m going to make sure they know about it,” Winslow explained.

I drop the paper and sink back down into my chair, a starkly stunned expression on my face.

Well, at least you know his last name now.

“That’s him, right?” Belle asks, before narrowing her eyes on me to survey me closely. “Why do you look as if you’ve seen a ghost?”

I shake my head a couple times, silently of course, since words completely escape me, and she eventually moves on.

The weird thing about being as closely bonded as we are, is that, sometimes, that means not reacting to the strange behavior that sets off red flags. We are each other’s safe havens of space and understanding.

“Wild,” she says then with a snort. “I guess Jude, the Magic Dancer isn’t just a dancer after all, huh?”

I shake my head.

I guess not.