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226 pages, Kindle Edition
First published October 8, 2020
"This isn’t like you. Where’s my go-with-the-flow Cairo?”
He’s hiding behind the jealous-as-fuck-someone-is-going-to-steal-you-away-from-me-before-I-figure-out-how-I-feel-about-you Cairo.





I refuse to look down. The water distorts things anyway. I don’t want to see a dick unless it’s mine to play with, and neither of their dicks fall into that category. Pretty sure. Probably.

Danger, will.i.am, or whatever that show was way before my time.

Swallowing hard, I focus on the mirror and brushing my teeth, ignoring the fight-or-flight response that kicks in every time Luca looks at me with those sweet blue eyes full of unspoken promises of more. It’s just that I don’t want more. I want everything to be like it is. Cairo’s role is permanent bestie. Luca’s role is fuck buddy. My role is dick receptacle. That’s it. Nothing beyond that. Everything gets fucked up with more.

Saturday nights are for fucking. Mornings are for working.

“Tell me about you and Gen.”
“It’s complicated.”
“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
“Why does everyone say that?”
“Because we can tell?”

When I wanted every part of my life entwined with every part of his, the good and bad and mediocre, I knew.

Why can’t I be a normal person who appreciates and loves having two gorgeous, sweet guys in my life? Why can't I tell them that I want to be here every night with them, and that I want…oh fuck. I cough as the thought hits me like a truckload of stolen Balenciagas.

This is what normal, well-adjusted single people do. They go on dates. Or maybe I’m not single. I’m in a relationship. I think. Possibly. I should clarify that but eww, feelings, and eww, talking and expectations. Eww.

I hit the buzzer, then stand in the doorway and wait for the elevator doors to open. When they do, my mouth drops. Luca is wearing dress slacks, a button-down shirt, and a tie. A motherfucking tie. And he’s carrying, oh my fucking gay god, a bouquet of flowers. For me.

Oooh, okay, with that southern drawl? I’m dead.

I’m not fit for love. I couldn’t do it if I tried. My love is full of thorns and snares and will only result in everyone’s demise. I should tell them. Let them go. Tell them to stop waiting for my heart to thaw because it isn’t there anymore. It’s not covered in ice. It’s gone. Ripped from my chest by too many men who never cared. Left out to wither away until nothing was left.

If someone would have told me six months ago that this would be my life, I would have kicked them in the shin with my best Balenciaga boots.


