Yannik
Dad has always been my Jesus.
I can't remember a single time he did something wrong.
Not even when he gave it his all to style my hair for Hair Day in elementary school and accidentally burned it so badly we had to chop it all off.
Not even when he grounded me for a whole month after I got into a fight in seventh grade and broke some boy's arm.
Not even when he picked me up from TJ's, staying awake the entire night so his fifteenâyearâold daughterâa cop's daughterâcould cry her drunken, high, regret-filled eyes out because she'd kissed a boy she didn't even care about.
But Savannah? She'll always be my Judas.
Because it was her.
It was her box, left forgotten in the garage when she finally took away the rest of her belongings, that changed everything.
Her name was written on it.
And inside, through the pages of her diaryâevery name crossed off in "Savannah's Wins List"âI found something I didn't know I'd been searching for.
The guilt that had been tearing me apart suddenly turned into something darker, something that felt like glory.
That kiss TJ gave me, the one I didn't want, the one he hoped would make me feel the same way he didâit finally had a purpose. It engraved itself on the list as number one.
And it was Savannah who taught me what it all meant. It was her voice that I kept replaying in my mind like a motto.
Kisses are power.
Sex is power.
A woman's body is a weapon to get control.
Savannah wasn't there for most of my life, but every time she reappeared, she brought her demons with her.
Demons I let in and demons I learned from.
I've hated Savannah for what she did to Dad. Hated her with every fiber of my being.
Hated the simple idea of her existence.
And I'll hate her until the day I die.
But I'm also thankful to her.
Because she's the reason that broken girl finally found a way to see herself as something more than just a shadow of her mother.
Savannah showed her the way to become someone people desire. Someone they idolize.
Someone with powerânot over her own feelings, but over what people made her feel.
Savannah can't hurt me when I have power over ninety-four names.
Ninety-four men who cherish me, fantasize about me, see me as untouchable, unattainable.
Because I own them.
I feel his eyes on me.
I feel the way they trace every inch of me as I pause to catch my breath, leaning against the punching bag.
I know what's going through his mind. It's the same every time.
Every one of the ninety-four times.
Sweat drips down my face as my limbs ache from exhaustion, but my mind is on the huntârestless, desperate for that next hit of power.
I've known him for months nowâa guy who shows up to kickboxing class every few weeks, more interested in flashing his shirtless body than throwing a decent punch.
Pathetic. But cute enough to ignore all the things about him that annoy me.
Isn't that what you do, Savannah?
Close your eyes because the power is worth it?
"Hey," his voice interrupts my thoughts as he steps closer, smelling like sweat and cheap deodorant. "Aren't you Yannik Moore?"
"Yes, sir," I reply with a smile so fake it makes my skin crawl.
"Astor Wood. We played a few rounds of beer pong at TJ's summer party last year. Maybe you remember me?"
"Right. Astor..."
Astor Wood. Soon to be nothing more than a number.
Butterflies stir in my stomach, that premature flicker of satisfaction as his name already begins to etch itself into the list.
The butterflies don't feel the same when it's him.
With him, they multiply.
Hundreds become thousands, millions, with just the thought of his voice, his face, his name.
His name is too pretty to be cursed with my sins.
He is too pretty to be stained with my fingerprints.
"It was really cool talking to you again," Astor says, his nerves practically radiating off him.
He's so obvious. I can see it in the way he shifts his weight. I can feel it in the awkward energy between us.
Standing here, near the locker rooms, it hits me.
I could've kissed Tiago right there, back when he was high and looking at me with those hungry eyes.
I could've laughed at his weak attempt to stop me.
But I didn't.
Because Tiago was the first guy to resist me.
The first guy to want me enough to stop himself.
He's too special to be nothing more than another number.
"Hey, I know it's weird since we never talked after that party," Astor stammers, grating on my nerves. "but... can I get your number?"
All I can think about is those eyes of a loyal puppy and awkwardly charming accent he has.
He drives me insane with how clueless he is.
I can tell he's a mess. It's only a matter of time before he realizes it himself.
"Yannik?" Astor prompts again, his voice cutting through the haze.
I can't see straight anymore.
I can't hear anything but his voice or feel anything but the fire under my skin.
When my hands cup Astor's face, I squeeze my eyes shut.
And I see him.
A ghost of his scent fills my mindâcigarettes and cologne, smoky and sweetly woody.
Our lips collide in a desperate, messy kiss, but all I want is him.
All I see is him.
I'm craving his kiss. I'm craving his lips, his feelings, his hopes.
I'm craving the power he can give me.
My lips catch Astor's desperate moan a second before he grabs my body, pulling me closer, our mouths colliding in a mess of saliva and sweat. He tastes salty, and I know I do too.
This isn't love. It's not even infatuation.
It's nothing more than a fleeting desire for power that evaporates as fast as the kiss ends.
"Wow," Astor's voice lacks the warmth, the magnetism, of Tiago's. "Sorry, that was... sudden. So, is it a 'yes'?"
"It's a 'see you,' Astor."
The chill of the open air bites at my skin, still sticky and hot. I pull my hoodie over my head, burying my nose in the neckline.
Screw gym showers. I need one of those long, soul-searching showers where no one can see my bare ass or interrupt my self-care routine.
Astor Wood, the number ninety-five.
Astor Wood.
Number ninety-five. That's all he is now.
I try to recall the kiss, to savor the burning satisfaction of success. But instead, all I feel is sick.
The taste still lingers, heavy on my lips, threatening to drag me under. I inhale deeply, fighting the nausea.
What do you think about this, Savannah?
Are you proud that your daughter's a whore, just like you?
"Hey, Impy!"
Dad's voice carries from the living room as I step into the house. I can picture him sprawled on the couch, watching one of his cheesy romance movies. But I can't face him right now. Not like this.
"You're just in time! I ordered Chinese!"
"I'm not hungry, Dad."
I dart up the stairs before he can stand and make me talk. He always does. His therapist says communication is vital for healthy family dynamics, or whatever bullshit he's trying to force into our lives.
Maybe he should try using it to get Savannah out of Dad's head. Out of my head, too.
My bedroom door shuts behind me, and I'm alone in my pink prison. The room tempts me like it always does, its claws dragging me toward the closet.
I open it, reaching for the top shelf.
There it isâmy treasured curse. The only legacy Savannah left me, as twisted as she is.
Number ninety-five. Astor Wood.
Even his name makes my stomach churn, the revulsion so strong I can't believe I was desperate to kiss him just an hour ago.
It's part of the curse.
No feelings. No love. No attraction.
The moment I get the kissâboom.
The heart is empty.
But pride? That vessel overflows.
The listâa piece of sin, my addictionâslides back into the box where it belongs. I can't help but glance at her things as I close it. I've read it all so many times I could quote every page of her diary, name every number on her list of conquests...
And I'll never forget that Dad was one of them.
"Impy?"
Dad's voice comes from behind the door. My heart sinks as I imagine him finding me like thisâfalling apart, sinking lower than I've already gone.
"Wait!" I shout, shoving the box back onto the top shelf and slamming the closet shut. "Don't come in!"
I take a deep breath, steadying myself before opening the door.
Dad stands there, patient as always, respecting my boundaries like he always does. But the simple thought of him seeing me like thisâseeing how far I've fallenâunsettles me.
Like mother, like daughter, right, Daddy?
"Hey," I say, forcing a smile as casual as I can muster.
He looks uneasy, like he wants to ask me something but doesn't know how. He tries to smile back, but it's as shaky as mine.
"Hey, Impy," he finally says. "Are you sure you don't want to eat? Did something happen at the gym?"
"No." I shake my head, shoving the memory of the kiss out of my mind. "Everything's perfect. Just let me shower first."
"Alrighty." He looks away, awkward silence stretching between us.
He's so bad at hiding what's on his mindâit's actually sweet.
"Listen," he says, clearing his throat. "Mrs. Watts told me she saw you bringing a boy home the other day. Said she didn't recognize him. So... not Sam or TJ."
God, if there's anyone worse than Mrs. Watts, it's Satan himself.
"It's not like I'm not cool with it. I'm really cool with it. Extra cool!" His rambling is almost unbearable. "I just want to know... well, I'm not sure I want to know the details, butâ"
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, letting him stumble his way through his awkward dad monologue.
"Are you seeing someone?"
"I'm just tutoring, y'know." I say with a shrug.
His eyes widen slightly. Then, a chuckle escapes his lips.
"Yeah, right," he laughs.
I raise an eyebrow. Does he really think I'm too dumb to teach anyone anything?
"Oh, you're serious."
"And now also deeply offended." I smirk, suppressing a laugh. "Tiago's just my way of improving my records."
Well, my records would need to be burned and rebuilt from the ashes like a damn phoenix to actually improve.
"Tiago, then," Dad mutters. "What's his last name? I'm sure I know his folks..."
"You're not digging into his criminal records."
He gives me the most innocent look he can muster, but I'm not buying it.
"I wasn't going to..." he tries, but I know better. He did it with TJ and Sam, and I'm sure he still checks up on them weekly.
Dad might be a great cop, but when it comes to fatherhood, he's way too obvious.
"Now excuse me," I say, pointing at my sweat-soaked sports bra, "but I smell like a teenage boy."
"Oh, sure," Dad raises his eyebrows and steps back just as I'm about to close the door. "I'll heat the food up for you, Impy."
"Thanks, Daddy!" I shout back, letting the door click shut behind me.
From the corner of my eye, I catch the silhouette of Mrs. Watts framed in her living room curtains. That old snitch can't go one day without trying to peek into my life.
I toy with the idea of sneaking out my window, leaping off the garage roof, and landing right in her beloved garden. Maybe slicing her hose would make her mind her own damn business for once.
She's lucky my phone buzzes, snapping me back before I do something I can't undo.
"You up?" Tiago's voice washes over me like a shot of ice water after the rollercoaster of my day.
"Bitch, it's ten p.m. Do I look like a toddler? And who the fuck asks 'you up?' when I've already picked up?"
I don't know why I'm talking to him. I should hang up, hop in the shower, and wash Tiago right out of my system.
But something about him feels like a game I can't stop playing. Like I'm testing the limits of how far I can go before he makes me want to vomit just as every other guy does.
"Sorry, I got nervous," Tiago admits, his voice cracking just slightly. I exhale, trying to steady myself and listen to him. "It's just... I was thinking about it, and... God, this is stupid."
He's so awkward with girls it hurts. If he turns out to be a virgin, I swear I'll cry.
"Spit it out, Big Boy. I don't have all night," I say, kicking my shoes off.
I hear his sharp intake of breath. "What was that?"
It's not about the pep talk I gave him earlier on the fieldâI know what he's asking.
"Split payment."
"Split payment?" His voice is a mix of confusion and indignation.
I put my phone on speaker, letting it sit on the bed as I peel off my sticky sports bra. "I got you a chance at another tryout. You paid me back. Call it a loan repaymentâI don't care."
"Oh, no. This is even worse." I can't tell if he's laughing under his breath or about to have a breakdown. "So, what happens if I get into the team?"
"Are you seriously this desperate to get laid? Is that why you're calling me?" I pick the phone back up, grinning as I finally strip out of the last of my clothes. "Relax, Big Boy. I won't touch you unless you ask me to."
The line goes quiet, except for the sound of his breathing. I know what's happening on his endâhe's caught between his feelings and his logic, letting them fight until one wins.
And I already know the outcome.
Every time Tiago looks at me, there's this spark in his eyes, this deep, unguarded desire. He tries to hide it, to fight it, but he can't.
That's what makes him special.
"Don't expect me to ask," he finally says, his voice tight.
"As you say, Big Boy." My grin widens, a thrill curling low in my stomach. Standing there naked, I wonder how he'd react if he knew. "Good night."
The call ends, but I don't put my phone down right away. Instead, I open the camera.
I could make his night all about me with just a few taps.
I could make him ask. Beg. I could make him need me to let him kiss me, touch me, fuck me.
I could ruin himâconsume his thoughts, poison every inch of his existence with just one photo.
But I won't.
Instead, I toss the phone onto the bed and head to the shower.
Because he's special, Savannah.
Let him be special.