Virgin Romance by Penny Wylder
6
“Right, Miss Slutty McSlut-Slut, out with it.”
I squint through a mess of curly bedhead hair at Erin. She’s bouncing around the tiny kitchen, boiling water for coffee and burning some scrambled eggs at the same time. “Huh?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right. Don’t play the innocent act with me; I’ve tried it way too many times myself for that to work. Sit,” she adds, sternly, and I take a seat at the two-person countertop we use for a mail holder and occasional breakfast stand. She plops a plate of congealing eggs in front of me, along with two slices of toast, one overburnt and the other barely cooked. Yeah, okay, we could use a new toaster. And maybe a better frying pan while we’re at it.
But I’m too exhausted to even contemplate making food for myself right now, so I dig in with a nod of thanks. “Not sure what you mean,” I try through a mouthful of toast, even though I know by now it’s a futile effort.
Erin rolls her eyes exaggeratedly, a gesture she has perfected over the years. “You came home at like, one in the morning last night. After getting all dolled up around noon, no less, for your secret internet date. Come on, do you think I’m dumb? When was the last time you were out that late without me?”
“Uh, every night that I work?” I point out, taking a swallow of the coffee she drops in front of me next.
“Okay, fine, when was the last time you were out that late without me on your night off?” she clarifies.
I shrug one shoulder and dig into the eggs. “I went out to eat.” I can’t do this with her. She’ll ask a million and one questions, won’t let up until I give her details, and the minute she asks me where we met, what am I supposed to say? Oh hey, I took your advice and signed up for that sketchy site you mentioned where people auction off their virginity. He bought mine. Oh, right, because also, I lied about prom, I’m still a virgin. And, he still hasn’t even paid me and I already did way more with him than I planned to . . .
“Out to eat. Alone?” She raises her eyebrow.
Okay, so most of my reasons for not talking is because I’m afraid where all this will lead. But part of me might enjoy torturing her too. Just a little bit. “No,” I say, trying to hide my smirk. If she won’t let up, I can at least throw her off the scent.
“Ugh, you’re the worst!” She throws up her hands. “What is he, some kind of spy? Is he part of a secret government organization here to investigate me, is that why you can’t tell me anything?”
“He’s not spying on you, don’t worry.” I grin.
“So he’s spying on someone.” She makes a fake pondering face, scratching her chin in exaggeration. “Oh, is it Mrs. Bishop on second? She’s always seemed sketchy to me. Like, she has a Greek accent but she speaks Croatian? What’s the deal there?”
“I’m pretty sure she is Croatian,” I point out.
Erin waves me off. “Where even is Croatia anyway? Is that a real place? Did she invent it as a cover story while she’s here to spy on local university students?”
“Yes, because The Fashion Institute of Design is just a hotbed of spy-worthy political conspiracy theorists.”
“Girl, you have no idea,” she deadpans, and we both laugh. Then she plops down in the seat beside me with a sigh. “Come on, though, seriously. Why don’t you want to share details? I love sharing details, that’s the best part of dating! Well, that and the sex. But sometimes even then, talking about it afterward is better.” She wrinkles her nose. “Oh, god, was that it? Was he bad? Did you have to sneak out his window at one in the morning?” She pats my hand reassuringly. “Been there, honey, no shame in that game.”
I snort. “No, Erin, he wasn’t bad.”
Her eyes light up. “So you’ve hooked up already.”
“No!” I groan and shake my head. “I mean, kind of. A little. Not really. Just making out.” And sucking him off under the table of a fancy restaurant. And him finger-fucking me in the driver’s seat of his BMW. And then sticking a vibrator inside me and torturing me the whole ride home.
“Okay, good start. He’s good at making out, that’s promising.” She smirks.
“Good at making out” would be the understatement of the year. I can still feel his hands all over me, his mouth on mine. I can still hear his voice in my head. You’re mine, Bonnie. And fuck, how I want to be.
When I zone back in, Erin’s watching me with a knowing smile. “Very good, apparently,” she says, and I laugh, but I don’t correct her. “Well, fine, keep your secretive secrets. But this new boy better treat you well, or I swear I will find him and I will end him. That’s all I’m saying,” she adds as she pushes out of her chair.
The mental image of tiny little Erin going up against rich playboy gazillionaire Pierce does bring a brighter smile to my face. And hell, after the way he dumped me in front of the house last night, with barely a parting word, I can’t say I’d hate watching the fight go down.
Though I’d much rather her not need to beat him up. I’d much rather he fuck me the way he started to in that car, drive me wild and fill me to the brink with pleasure, and then . . .
And then pay me and get of out my life, I tell myself firmly. That’s the deal here. Nothing more. He’s a hookup, end of story.
Maybe it’s a good thing he dumped me so summarily last night. It shows he’s got his head on straight. It gives me a chance to screw mine on tighter, and stop fantasizing about a one-time thing.
“Oh, by the way.” Erin turns back to me and I tense, ready for another round of rapid-fire questioning. How much more of this can I take? But she doesn’t lay into me with more questions. She just drops a stack of mail on the counter beside my plate of eggs. “These came for you yesterday.”
One glance at the top of the pile sours my mood faster than Pierce’s non-goodbye. Because I recognize that return address.
Gram’s care facility.
I rip open the topmost envelope, and my stomach sinks through the floor, all the way down into Mrs. Bishop’s second floor apartment.
Fuck.
I thought I’d been keeping up relatively well, paying this off in full when I can and in installments when I’m running late. But the unpaid bill in front of me is three times the rate of last month. I dig through the pile of envelopes, find another letter from them and tear that open.
Shit.
They’re raising my premium because I missed too many payments over the summer. I fume, ready to call and argue, but they’ve included a list of payments below, and when I think back, I realize, shit. They’re right. I thought I only missed a month, but now that I think about it, I haven’t sent a full payment since last June. The diner slows down over the summer months, without the usual crowd of college kids stumbling in late at night to binge on nacho fries and $5 alcoholic milkshakes.
“Hey, you okay?” Erin touches my shoulder. I realize too late that she’s standing behind me, and I quickly shove the letters back into an envelope, shuffling them under the mail stack.
“I’m fine. Just got some notices about Gram’s place.”
Erin catches my eye, and the sympathy on her face right now is even worse than the interrogation she gave me about Pierce. If there’s one thing I hate feeling, it’s pitied. “If you need to talk or anything, you know you can tell me, right?” she says, and that just makes me feel even worse.
Because I don’t need to talk. I don’t need to complain about this situation, or vent my feelings. I need to fix it, once and for all.
I need Pierce’s money.
And I’m going to get it. No matter what it takes.
I force a wide smile, and even though it’s fake as hell, I can tell Erin won’t push me on it. “Everything will work out,” I tell her. “I’m a little tight at the moment, but I’m just waiting for back checks from the diner to come in. No biggie.”
She opens her mouth, probably to ask what the hell I mean, because the diner has never held my checks for me before. Luckily, a loud buzzer saves me from answering.
“I’ll get it,” I call, leaping out of my seat toward the intercom. Probably a delivery for Mrs. Bishop again. The delivery guys can never seem to be able to tell 2s from 3s. “Hello?” I ask the intercom.
“Delivery for Bonnie.”
Erin and I exchanged raised-eyebrow looks as I hit the buzzer.
“Did you order anything off Amazon?” she asks. I shake my head. I haven’t been drunk enough to spontaneously buy anything since the start of the semester, when I accidentally ordered 10 spiral bound notebooks instead of one.
When I open the door to the delivery guy, he hands me an enormous box. I frown at the label, but sign for it anyway, and bring it inside. “No return address,” I say, slowly, as a sense of dread begins to fill me.
Shit. Is this . . . But it can’t be from Pierce. He doesn’t know my address.
He dropped you off out front last night, points out the voice at the back of my head. How hard would it have been to check the address on the front door? To look at the labels on the buzzer and figure out which apartment B. Taylor belonged in?
But he wouldn’t do that. Would he?
“Open it already!” Erin demands, and I guess there’s nothing for it. Incriminating or not, I can’t exactly pretend this package didn’t just arrive.
I grab scissors from the kitchen and cut into the box carefully. Sure enough, the moment the tissue paper inside parts, I know who to blame for this.
Luckily the box on top is just the dress. Shorter than the last one he sent me, cut above knee-length, a deep V-neck top with a flowing, satiny skirt.
Pure white.
“Wow, did you get mixed up with a bride?” Erin smirks and dives at the box. Before I can stop her, she pulls out the next gift—high heels, at least four inches tall this time, and narrower than the last pair of heels. Also pure white, so blinding it almost hurts my eyes.
He did not.
That fucking bastard.
She keeps digging, unearthing a box set of jewelry next. When she opens that to find a pair of diamond-encrusted wristlets (which are shaped suspiciously like a pair of handcuffs, if you look at them for too long) and a narrow choker-style necklace to match, Erin nearly drops the whole box in surprise.
“Dude.” She whistles under her breath, eyes still bugging out of her head. Then she spots a little note attached to the bracelet case. “‘For my blushing Bonnie.’ Who did you say this spy of yours was again? And more importantly, does he have any friends he’d like to introduce me to?” She grins.
I snatch the jewelry boxes from her hands, blushing furiously. “He’s being ridiculous. I never asked for any of this.”
“Is he trying to propose or something? What the hell is with all the white?” She’s reaching into the box again, pulling out the last package, which of course is a matching set of barely-there lace panties and a filigree bra.
I grab that from her before she can inspect it too closely. “No, he’s just teasing me.” Because he is. White for my purity. White for virginal, innocent Bonnie.
If this is his idea of making a big deal of me losing it, I wish I had just fucked him in the car last night and been done with it. Shit.
On the other hand . . . I eyeball the bracelets, which Erin is busy trying on experimentally. I could probably resell those for at least a few hundred apiece. Which will pay back a decent chunk of that bill I just received.
Maybe grabbing the attention of a rich spend-crazy billionaire isn’t such a bad thing after all, even if he has an irritating way of pushing my buttons as he tries to spoil me.
At the bottom of the box, thankfully undiscovered by Erin, I find another note.
Pick you up at 7 tonight. He signed it simply—P.P., but even that much of a clue would be a giveaway to my sleuth of a brilliant best friend. How many billionaires could be living in the city with those initials? I haven’t googled him yet, mostly because I don’t want to know more than he’s told me, not until this thing is over and done with. But Erin would not have the same restraint, I know. Especially not if she thought he was mistreating me in any way.
I shove the note into my pocket. “Well. Looks like I need to call out of the diner again,” I say, and Erin grins sideways at me.
“That job takes advantage of you anyway. Let me call; I’ll tell them you’re in the hospital. Dad can forge you a doctor’s note if you need it.”
Sometimes, for all her nosiness and encouragement of misbehavior, I really do love my best friend.
