Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
I sit on the edge of the bed to lace up my running shoes. They're the kind serious runners wear, the kind I researched obsessively before buying, reading reviews and comparing cushioning technology like it mattered.
Like any of this matters.
When they're tied, I head to the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge, sliding it into the back pocket of my running vest. The vest itself is a relatively new addition to my collection of things I never thought I'd own—lightweight mesh, reflective strips, multiple pockets for phone, and keys, and energy gels I don't actually use.
I slip my phone into the front pocket, feeling the familiar weight of it settle against my ribs.
Six months ago, I didn't even know what a running vest was. I certainly didn't need one—it's not like I'm out here making TikToks about "The Running Effect" or documenting my fitness journey for an audience of strangers, though I do record my runs on the app just for the sake of having something to show for the hours I spend on the Greenbelt.
The data, the metrics, the proof that I moved my body through space, and burned calories, and logged miles. I just felt left out, I guess. Like the new girl on the Snake River trail, watching all the serious runners go by with their gear, and their purpose, and their easy confidence.
I hate that I bought this shit. The vest, the shoes, the expensive athletic wear that makes me look like I belong in this version of my life.
I love that I have it. That I can put the vest on and become someone who runs, someone who fits in, someone who looks like they have their shit together.
Life shouldn't be this contradictory.
Why is it always so confusing?
I descend the stairs and step out into the late August morning, breathing in the crisp air that still carries a hint of coolness before the day heats up. The sun is just beginning its climb over the eastern horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and orange that fade into pale blue. The streets are quiet—most of the downtown shops won't open for hours yet, and the serious morning runners have already completed their first loops.
I walk the couple of blocks to the river at an easy pace, rolling my shoulders, shaking out my arms, letting my muscles gradually wake up. It's something I learned the hard way during those first brutal weeks after I moved here—how you can't just throw your body into motion without warning, how tendons protest and joints lock up if you don't ease them into it first. How much it hurts when you're too impatient, too desperate to outrun whatever's chasing you through your own head.
Then, once I reach the Greenbelt, once my feet hit the familiar paved trail that runs alongside the Snake River, I start to jog. Not fast. Never fast. Just a steady, sustainable pace that lets my mind drift while my body moves on autopilot.
And I let the words come.
The story.
Third person now, not first.
Ivy and Logan.
Logan opens the heavy door of Velvet Underground, his hand firm on the small of Ivy's back as he guides her through. The lighting inside is dim—ambient reds and purples that cast everyone in soft shadows. There are people everywhere. On couches, on platforms, against walls. Some are dressed in leather and latex, others are completely naked.
Ivy's breath catches when she realizes what's happening on the central stage—a woman bent over a padded bench while a man fucks her from behind, slow and deliberate, his hands gripping her hips. The woman's face is visible in profile, and she's not faking. Her mouth is open, eyes squeezed shut, and when she moans it echoes through the club.
"Everyone's watching," Logan murmurs against Ivy's ear. "Everyone can see how hard she's taking it. How much she loves it."
Ivy's pussy clenches involuntarily.
Logan leads her to a private alcove separated from the main floor by sheer black curtains. Not truly private—anyone can see through if they look—but removed enough to feel like a secret. There's a leather couch, a low table with bottles of water and condoms, and mirrors on two walls.
"Strip," Logan says. Not harsh. Just certain.
Ivy's hands shake as she pulls her dress over her head. She's wearing the black lace lingerie he told her to buy and his eyes darken when he sees it.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You did exactly what I told you."
He's on her before she can respond, his mouth claiming hers, his hands everywhere. He unhooks her bra with practiced ease, cups her breasts, thumbs her nipples until she's gasping against his mouth. When he slides his hand into her panties, his fingers find her dripping wet.
"Christ, Ivy. You're soaked." He pushes two fingers inside her without warning, and she moans so loudly someone beyond the curtain laughs.