Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Several times, I consider finding a way to contact Peyton to ask her to dinner, but I don’t because spending time with her here would feel too personal. This is where she lives, but the DR will be neutral ground. We’ll spend some time together, and I’ll show her the sights. She’ll be a good distraction, and we’ll go our separate ways. Then, I can focus on the important shit, like ending the ties between the three families so we’ll be free from our father once and for all.
“That’s all I need,” I tell myself. “One night with Peyton to get her out of my system, and then we can both move on.”
5
Peyton
I’m almost positive I agreed to have a one-night stand with Dominick Antonov, the gentleman from business class. It wasn’t mentioned outright, but I’m pretty sure the sights Dominick wants to show me don’t include the local museums and parks.
As I shave my legs, I tell myself that he was messing with me. No sane man is going to take a commercial flight to the Dominican Republic with the sole purpose of getting laid. Chances are, I’m going to get on the plane, and he won’t be there, but …
I continue to shave, because I’ll be damned if, after going through a six-month dry spell, I’m going to be caught with prickly legs, hairy pits, and bushy lady bits.
The man is gorgeous in a suit, and I have very little doubt that he’s any less gorgeous without it on. I’ve met plenty of men like him before—confident, sure of himself, knows his place in this world. Unlike Dale—who I’ve been told is all dad bod—Dominick doesn’t try to flaunt it or throw himself at women because men like Dominick know they can have sex anytime they want, and they don’t have to harass or beg or threaten women for it to happen.
After finishing in the shower, I turn the water off and go about drying off and blow-drying my hair. I apply my makeup, laying the red lipstick on thick to match my naturally red hair, fully aware I’m doing it for a certain man I’m hoping will be on the flight.
My results came back, and I’m STD-free—thank God. But I’m not risking that shit again, so I pack a few condoms I keep on hand. I need to get on birth control, but that’s for another day.
I consider what to pack, wondering if it will look presumptuous if I bring lingerie. This past year has been rough, and with Mom’s medical expenses, I haven’t had the money to buy much for myself, but when a friend of mine from college was getting married a few months ago, she bought her bridesmaids a sexy set of lingerie to wear under our dresses. She said it was so we could be clichés and find a guy to hook up with after her wedding. At the time, I laughed since I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to have casual sex, but now, I’m thankful for her little gift.
I grab the bra and panty set from my drawer and toss it into my bag—because who cares? The guy is clearly looking to get laid, and I’d rather be prepared than have him see me in my flowery cotton underwear.
“Peyton, you look beautiful,” Mom says when I roll my overnight bag out to the living room, where she’s reading a book and drinking her morning coffee.
“I was feeling good this morning,” I tell her, not completely lying since the thought of an orgasm that’s not self-induced does have me feeling good.
Mom smiles warmly at me, and I lean down to give her a hug and a kiss on her cheek.
“I love you,” I tell her, so thankful that she’s still here.
After we found out she had hepatitis C—more than likely from a blood transfusion she had received when she gave birth to me, although it can’t be proven—I thought I was going to lose her, but she did treatment and was in remission for several years.
Then, we found out that the hep C caused liver cirrhosis, which led to liver cancer. Again, I thought I was going to lose my mom. But after a successful liver transplant, she was back in remission.
Everything was going well until we got the news a few weeks ago that her liver was failing. And we were told that even with dialysis, her liver would only last—in a perfect world—two to three years.
The only option is to do another liver transplant, but Mom will never survive that, nor does she want to go through that again. So, that means she’s dying, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“I love you too,” she says. “Have a safe trip, and I’ll see you in a couple of days.”