1.
If bad decisions had a scent, mine would be a potent blend of tequila, regret, and the strawberry scented body lotion I foolishly slathered on before my 21st birthday party. I groan as fragmented memories flash through my mind like a strobe light at a rave, disjointed, blinding, and impossible to ignore.
My head throbs in a relentless, pounding rhythm, a hangover the size of Texas clinging to me like an unwanted ex. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I press a cold can of Red Bull against my forehead, the condensation a fleeting relief against my overheated skin. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to piece together exactly how my life unraveled into this regret-filled mess.
My 21st birthday was two days ago, but the aftermath still lingers physically, emotionally, and in a way that’s far more complicated than I’d like to admit. Specifically, in the form of a certain stepbrother who has no business starring in my latenight fantasies. Especially not the kind that leaves little to the imagination where he’s wearing nothing but a wicked grin and… well, not much else.
But we’ll unpack that later. First, let’s rewind because to understand how I ended up in this mess, you need to understand him. Montez. My stepbrother. The one person I should never look at that way, yet somehow, he’s the only one I can’t seem to stop thinking about.
He came into my life when I was eight years old, all awkward limbs and braces, a whirlwind of teenage angst and attitude. My mom had just married his dad, Luca, a man who was the complete opposite of my carefree, artistic mother. Luca was all business, all the time. Serious, driven, and built like a linebacker. He was also the sweetest, most caring man I’d ever met, and he quickly became the father I never had.
Montez, on the other hand, was an entirely different story. He was fifteen then, already towering over me, with those same dark, piercing eyes that made you feel like he could see straight through you. He carried himself with a quiet mystery wrapped in teenage scandals. A perfect blend of his father’s unwavering stoicism and something more elusive, something almost exotic that set him apart.
At first, we were like oil and water. I was the annoying little sister, always underfoot, always asking questions. He was the moody teenager, grunting one-word answers and disappearing into his room for hours on end. But over time, we reached a sort of truce. He’d tolerate my presence, even crack a smile every now and then. And I? Well, I developed a massive, hopeless, crush. A crush that was completely inappropriate, considering he was my stepbrother. But hormones, as we all know, don’t give a damn about technicalities.
He moved out at eighteen, first to college, then to his own place, but he was never gone for too long. Holidays, birthdays, random family gatherings he always came back. And every time he did, that crush, the one I thought I had buried, would flare up all over again.
Which brings us back to my 21st birthday party. The tequila. The dancing. The way he looked at me across the room. The way my body responded, with a mix of excitement and fear and a whole lot of “oh shit, what am I doing?”
Right now, though, I have more pressing matters to attend to. Like, you know, my actual job. I have a shift at CUM & PURR, the only job in the world where I can say things like, “Would you like a vibrating cock ring with that?” and not get side-eyed.
It’s a judgment-free zone, mostly. And the pay? Surprisingly good. But the real perk? The stories. Oh, the stories. Let’s just say I’ve witnessed things that would make your grandma clutch her pearls and your therapist reconsider their career choice.
With a sigh, I reach for my phone on the nightstand, the screen already lighting up with a flood of messages. Riala. My best friend, my partner-in-crime, my co-conspirator in questionable life choices. We met at CUM & PURR, instantly bonding over a mutual appreciation for inappropriate jokes and the sheer, unhinged absurdity of our job.
She’s the kind of friend who will take one look at you, declare you look like you lost a fight with a bottle of brandy, and then immediately hand you another shot to make it all better.
Riala [8:42 AM]: BITCH WHERE U AT???
Riala [8:45 AM]: DID U DIE?? DID U DIE AFTER DRUNK-FLIRTING W MONTEZ?? TELL ME NOW.
I groan, tossing the phone onto the bed like it personally betrayed me. Because, yeah, that happened. Drunk me had absolutely no shame, and drunk me also decided that eye-fucking Montez from across the party wasn’t enough. Nope, I had to push the envelope. And now? Now I have to go to work and pretend my life isn’t exploding. Or at least, pretend it’s not obviously exploding. Which is going to be difficult, considering Riala is probably going to spend the entire shift grilling me about my drunken escapades.
By the time I step into CUM & PURR, the store’s signature neon sign casting a pink glow over the interior, I already feel the headache brewing. The scent of vanilla-flavored lube, cheap lingerie, and plastic-wrapped hangover hits me immediately. It’s a unique aroma, to say the least. A smell that’s both familiar and vaguely disturbing.
“Ah, yes,” I mumble under my breath. “The scent of capitalism and questionable life choices.”
A deep cackle from behind the counter makes me turn. Riala is perched on a stool, picking at her nails, wearing a tiny black tank top that proudly reads, RIDE OR DIE PREFERABLY RIDE. Her short, curly brown hair bounces around her face, and her brown eyes lock onto me with a knowing gleam. She smirks so wide I almost walk back out.
“Bitch.” She draws out the word like it’s a secret spell. “Tell me why Montez looked like he was about to devour you at that party.”
I freeze mid-step. “What?”
She slides off the stool, sauntering over to me with all the confidence of a woman who’s caught me in 4K Ultra HD.
“Don’t play dumb. I saw him looking at you like he wanted to put you on your knees. And the way you were looking at him?” She lets out a dramatic sigh, fanning herself with her hand.
“Scandalous. I live for it.”
My stomach flips, but I play it cool. “I was drunk.”
Riala wags a finger at me. “Uh-huh. And so was he. Drunk in lust, ho.”
