Chapter Eighty-Six

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One Week Later...

Friday

My bare foot taps against the floor uncontrollably. My toes rise and fall against the anchor of my heel in rapid successions, as if they're battery-operated.

My arms have become so tense that I think they might snap right off my shoulders at the slightest motion, so I keep them crossed over my chest and stare at the old, washed-out duffel bag in silent resignation.

"Ugh!"

I've been at this practically all day and I still haven't made any progress. Not even a little bit.

Jesus, why am I overthinking this so much?

Because you've never had to pack to spend an entire weekend at a man's house before—a man who's pretty much promised to fuck your brains out while you're there, no less. Duh!

God, I'm going to pass out.

Scratch that.

First, I'm going to hyperventilate, then choke on my own spit, and then pass out.

I'm trying to breathe normally, but normal is the furthest thing from what I feel. I start to shake again, my skin vibrating with a level of anxiety I've never felt before. But I guess all my agitation is not without good reason.

Today is the day.

I can't believe it's happening; my first session with Frost.

God, I don't know if I can go through with this.

I start pacing around my room as my legs grow restless yet again, growing more and more anxious with each manic step. I've lost count of how many times my feet have made their way across the narrow carpet and back again.

Fuck! Why the hell did I agree to this? I scold myself for the millionth time. But I don't even know why I bother.

I know damn well why I did it; why I agreed to do something as low as whore myself out to a married man.

Something cold and slithery creeps up my spine, spreading through the rest of my body. I quickly become this walking bundle of extreme jitters and overactive nerves.

And for the first time since this whole fiasco began, like a punch in the face, it occurs to me:

I...I might actually be terrible at sex.

I mean, I only have one, lone experience to go on that I can barely even remember because I was stoned the entire time.

Oh, my God...

What if I really am? Like, what if I suck so badly that he refuses to pay me? What then? I'd have fucked a married man—and done a piss poor job at it, too—thrown away all of my dignity, and disgraced my deceased mother for absolutely nothing?

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

The more I think about it, the more I freak out. Why the hell didn't I think about this before now? Fuck! What am I going to do?

Just pretend you know what you're doing, a calming voice in my head whispers.

I try to listen to that voice instead of the fear and self-doubt looming heavily over my head like a stupid grey cloud that won't go away.

Yeah. Okay.

I nod several times to try to reassure myself that everything will be alright, and to protect my fleeting sanity.

I'll just pretend I know what I'm doing. If it comes down to it, I'll improvise. I mean...it's just sex, right? How hard can it be?

It sounds cliché as hell, and I never thought I'd say anything so damn cheesy, but the anticipation is literally killing me. I'm so lightheaded I can't even think straight. It's a miracle my body can function at all—even though it's doing little more than aimlessly walking around and sweating profusely.

My eyes move to the phone laying on my bed. I resist the urge to grab it and look at the text again. I almost drove myself mad reading it over and over again all week.

I seriously don't know where the time went. The days passed by so fast and, one week later, I'm no more prepared to deal with what's coming than I was when I first got the text. In fact, I'm actually more flustered and all over the place.

And speaking of time, my eyes dart over to the digital display of my alarm clock.

6:58 PM.

Shit.

My heart swells in panic at the sight of the bright red electronic digits.

It's almost seven o'clock and I'm still prancing around like I have all the time in the world. I have just under an hour to get to my destination, and even though it was only four words, Frost's text could not have been more clear on his adamance that I not be late. For Christ's sake, I could actually hear his voice in my head as I read the words on the screen:

Do. NOT. Be. Late.

He clearly made that the first instruction for a reason. I know he's anal about punctuality so, while the demand is unnerving, it's not really surprising. But what is both unnerving and surprising is his second instruction.

Make sure you drink at least three liters of water over the course of the day before you get here.

I can't even begin to say how many times that sentence has spun itself around in my head, twisting and turning in my brain, trying to figure out why he asked me to do that. What the fuck could he possibly be planning to do that requires me to drink that much water in less than a day?

I uncap the bottle of water sitting at my desk, gripping the bottle so tightly that the plastic deforms underneath the pressure of my fingers, and I take a large gulp. And then another. And another. I don't stop until I drain it.

It sounds crazy, but ever since I read the text, I've been downright paranoid about drinking water. I've even been on edge while taking showers, brushing my teeth, and even seeing it drizzle outside. Hell, I can't look at a damn puddle of melted ice without thinking about what he said.

I shake myself out of my mental funk and back into the present, reminding myself that I seriously need to hurry the hell up if I'm going to make it on time. There's clearly more than enough tension existing between us as it is, and I really don't want to start this...this arrangement off on an even worse note.

My body goes into another mini frenzy as my brain resumes scrambling itself, trying to decide what I need to bring. I go back and forth again, at least until the mental whiplash exhausts me—which only takes about a minute or so. Out of frustration, I end up tossing in a random change of clothes, some underwear, my pajamas, my toothbrush, hair brush, towel...

What else, what else? What else do I need?

God, this is weird. Not to mention, stressful as hell. It's not like I'm packing for a sleep-over at Trixie's. Well, I guess technically, this is a sleep-over of sorts. But it's not just a sleep-over. In fact, I'm not sure how much actual sleeping will be involved—if any—for either of us over the next forty-eight hours. But still, what exactly does one bring when going over to someone's house just to fuck them. I could probably Google or YouTube it, but I get the feeling I'd only drive myself batshit crazy and lose myself in one of the internet's many black holes if I did. No bueno at all.

Once again, my mind switches gears, reviving the vivid memory of the contract. I immediately feel this simultaneous rush of hot and cold sprinting through every single blood vessel in my head, my entire body trembling with each recollection by my brain. My skin breaks out in rigid goosebumps and my face catches fire as I remember its contents. All those pages. All those paragraphs. All those sentences. All those words; explicitly stating all the stipulations of our agreement and the many, many promises of what he's going to do with me.

What he's going to do to me.

I struggle to swallow the large lump I didn't realize was in my throat as this extremely unnerving feeling settles in the pit of my stomach, telling me that even though the contract was explicit and masked nothing, it was also only a glimpse of what's to come. After all, practice is a million worlds away from theory.

I should know.

***

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