But when you’ve committed the ultimate sin, sleeping around doesn’t really have the same angst to it anymore. At least I’m safe now. My current boyfriend is so old he has three kids and had a vasectomy years ago before he and his ex-wife divorced, so I don’t have to worry about him knocking me up.
Something pokes me in my right ass cheek, so I find the energy to lift my head and blink my eyes open to see what it is – a shiny black shoe attached to a man’s leg.
“You need to leave,” he informs me. “My wife will be home soon.”
Ugh. I know what you’re thinking. I’m such a whore.
While that is indeed true, I am not a whore who sleeps with married men.
No, I’m a whore who is screwing an older man, my former Women’s Studies professor to be exact, who happens to have an exhibition fetish and a lot of buddies into voyeurism who happily indulge him. So while this guy may be married, what he did last night wasn’t much different than jerking off to a porno. Instead, he just jerked off while I was getting fucked on his sofa. Twice if I recall. Hard to remember many details since I was passed out drunk before we came over.
“Where’s Bob?” I croak through cracked lips.
That’s right. I’m sleeping with my former professor who is old enough to be my father and has the least attractive name ever.
“He left an hour ago to make his early class.”
“Right,” I mutter. Getting to class on time is much more important than making sure the girl he’s screwing gets home okay. What if his buddy was more than a voyeur and fucked me while I was unconscious?
It wouldn’t be the first time.
A few weeks ago, I woke up to a fifty-something man wheezing and moving on top of me. He had somehow shoved his limp dick inside of me, but it was still refusing to cooperate. Seeing me look up at him didn’t faze him at all. Didn’t even miss a strained thrust. Only when I started throwing up did he finally stop trying to fuck me.
If it were feasible to hate myself even more than I already do I would, but when you’ve hit rock bottom, it’s impossible to go any lower.
For the first time in my life I’m actually free, though, which is all that matters. I can screw who I want, drink as much as I want, and nobody will stop me.
I’m certainly not with Bob because he’s the loving father figure I was missing in my life. No, he’s just been very sexually liberating. He’s never criticized me for being promiscuous or enjoying some of the more taboo fetishes like being fucked in public or being watched. In fact, he encourages me to embrace my sexuality and to stop worrying about what society or my father thinks about my choices.
Although, it would be nice if he cared a little bit more for my well-being and didn’t abandon me in random places with strangers.
I finally push myself up into a sitting position and glance around the formal sitting room with fancy sofas and an expensive-looking chandelier hanging above me. Unfortunately, in all the posh décor I do not find anything to cover my nakedness with.
“Where are my clothes?” I ask the guy who is now preoccupied with tying his tie.
“No clue. Find them and put them on, then leave through the back door,” he demands before he hurries out of the room.
Chapter Three
Conrad
* * *
I’ve spent the last two days making plans, stocking up the pantry and fridge for Cannon, and finalizing my itinerary with a single ticket to San Francisco. I also booked the best return flight I could find with no more than one layover. Of course, everything depends on how quickly I can convince Hannah Bailey to leave the city, but I still like to plan ahead. A backpack with two changes of clothes is all I’m taking since that’s the deadline I’m giving myself – two days. One to get there and one to get back. It should be fairly easy.
After pouring myself another cup of coffee, I lean against the kitchen counter to go through my mental checklist to make sure I have everything I’ll need. I’ve got to leave for the airport in fifteen minutes to make sure I have plenty of time to get through security. Ah, which thankfully reminds me to leave my Glock here.
I’ve just placed the handgun on the kitchen counter when the door to the main-level master bedroom opens. Cannon strolls out in nothing but a pair of unbuttoned jeans with last night’s hookup – a brunette who, with her disheveled hair and twisted orange dress, looks thoroughly fucked. I don’t know how many times I’ve warned Cannon that his playboy ways will one day come back to bite him in the ass. But I’m also one of the few people who knows why there’s a revolving door of casual sex to his bed. Back when we were in high school, both of us were dating beautiful, wholesome girls. Smart ones with goals and ambitions in life. Ones that meant leaving this town. While Cannon was so in love he wanted to try long distance with his girl, Kimberly, that wasn’t enough for her. She insisted that they either make it official and get engaged or break up. And like most eighteen-year-olds, Cannon wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment. Kimberly broke his heart. He assumed that she was bluffing and wouldn’t actually end their relationship if he refused to give her a ring, but she wasn’t.
My relationship with Rebecca on the other hand ended abruptly for a completely different reason in high school. One that I’m grateful she kept her promise and never told anyone about.
“Hiya, Conrad,” the flavor of the week says as she passes by the kitchen, looking proud of herself for not only figuring out Cannon had a brother but also learning my name. I simply tip my chin up at her, not bothering to ask her name, much less try to remember it while giving Cannon a shake of my head.
“Wow. He’s just as hot as you are,” I hear her whisper loudly to my twin.
I’m already mouthing Cannon’s response to myself with a roll of my eyes since I’ve heard it from his mouth a million times. “That’s right, baby. I was so handsome and perfect that after God made me, he decided he needed a duplicate. That’s where Con-man over there came from.”
The flavor of the week giggles like it’s the funniest shit she’s ever heard before saying, “So last night was really great.” And cue Cannon opening the front door of our two-story, raised beach house to show her out. “Call me again sometime, okay?” she adds.
“Sure thing, babe,” Cannon agrees, making me shake my head because he doesn’t even try to at least make his lie sound believable.
The door shuts, and then I hear his heavy sigh of relief.
“Someday you’re gonna…”
“Knock one of them up and regret being a humongous player,” we both finish the sentence at the same time, not because we know each other so well but because he’s heard me say that as often as he spouts his God’s duplicate nonsense.
Coming around the kitchen counter, Cannon removes a mug from one of the upper cabinets and grins while pouring himself a cup of coffee. “I know, I know,” he mutters. “I’ll fuck up and ruin my life. Not everyone can be a celibate gentleman like you, Con-man.”
I’m nothing close to a celibate gentleman. The fact that my twin doesn’t know that just goes to show how much work I have to put into keeping up the façade. I hate it. Really, I do. I don’t like lying to anyone, especially him. We’ve told each other everything since the time we could talk in half-assed gibberish sentences. Just looking at his face I usually know what he’s thinking and vice versa.