Chapter 24

Sunday September 8 Holly woke to sunlight slanting through the blinds in hard, golden bars. The room smelled of sex and sleep, sweat, cum, the faint cedar of Riley’s perfume still clinging to the sheets. She rolled onto her back, one arm flung across the empty space beside her, and stared at the ceiling fan turning slow lazy circles.

The clock on the nightstand read 4:47 p.m.

She blinked once, twice. Did the math in her head. She’d crashed sometime around five that morning. That meant almost twelve hours gone. Twelve hours of nothing but breathing and dreaming. Her body felt heavy, pleasantly wrecked, like every muscle had been used exactly the way it was meant to be used and then some.

She let out a long breath through her nose. Exhausted. Not the bone-deep tired of a bad week, but the good kind, the kind that came from giving everything and getting everything back. She wasn’t ready to move yet. Wasn’t ready to think about cameras, lighting, editing timelines, subscriber comments, revenue reports. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow either.

She needed a break. A real one. Time to breathe. Time to plan the subscriber contest without the pressure of daily uploads hanging over her head. The idea Beth had dropped at the bar last night, ten winners, all-expenses-paid gangbang weekend, was still burning in her mind like a slow fuse. She could already see the video announcement: her and Debbie on the bed, naked, teasing the rules, promising chaos. She could already feel the anticipation building in her chest.

But first she needed a shower. And answers.

She rolled over, stretched, felt the pleasant ache between her legs, the faint stickiness still on her thighs. A folded piece of paper sat on the nightstand, torn from an old high school notebook, handwriting neat but hurried.

Holly, Thanks for an unbelievable night. Come find me at the Anchor again. Any night. I’ll be there.

Love, Riley Holly smiled, small, private. Tucked the note into the drawer with the others she kept. Then she swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded barefoot down the hallway.

The house was quiet except for the low murmur of voices from the kitchen. She followed the sound, the smell of garlic and herbs, the steady sizzle of something cooking on the stove.

Beth and Debbie were at the island. Beth perched on a stool in nothing but one of Debbie’s silk robes, hair a wild tangle, sipping red wine from a stemless glass. Debbie stood at the range in yoga pants and a tank top, stirring a pan of pasta sauce, hair pulled into a messy knot. Both of them looked as wrecked as Holly felt, lips swollen, faint marks on necks and thighs, eyes bright with the kind of satisfaction that only comes from a night that ends with no regrets.

Holly leaned in the doorway, arms folded. “Evening, ladies.”

Debbie glanced over her shoulder, smiled. “Morning, sweetheart. Or whatever time it is. You slept like the dead.”

Beth raised her glass in salute. “We were taking bets on whether you’d wake up before midnight.”

Holly crossed to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, twisted the cap. “Twelve hours. I needed it. Body’s still humming.”

Debbie gave the sauce one last stir, then spooned out a generous portion of pasta, sliding one bowl across the island to Beth and another toward Holly. “Sit. Eat. You look like you ran a marathon.”

Holly took the stool next to Beth, twirled a forkful of spaghetti, inhaled the rich scent of tomatoes, garlic, and fresh basil. She chewed slowly, savoring it.

“Twelve hours,” she said again, almost to herself. “I feel like I could sleep another twelve. But I’m starving.”

Debbie leaned against the counter, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “You earned it. Last night sounded ... intense.”

“So,” Holly said in between bites. “Mike Zordick. On the couch. Absolutely pounding you when we walked in. How did that happen?”

Debbie laughed, low, easy, and leaned against the counter, arms folded. “About eleven-thirty last night I heard a loud bang from the garage. Sounded like a goddamn shotgun. Scared the hell out of me. I threw on a robe and grabbed the baseball bat from under the bed and went to check.”

Debbie shrugged. “I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear footsteps on the porch. Mike bursts in, shirt untucked, smelling like whiskey and cigar smoke, says he heard the same bang from his place and came running. Thought someone was shooting.”

Holly raised an eyebrow. “He just ... barged in?”

“Door was unlocked,” Debbie said. “I’d left it open for you guys. He saw me with the bat, realized I was fine, then we both went out to the garage to look. Turns out the torsion spring on the garage door snapped, loud as hell, but no damage. He said he’d fix it tomorrow.”

Beth leaned forward. “And then?”

Debbie’s smile turned sly. “He’d been out playing poker with some buddies. His wife Lori is in Savannah visiting her sister. He was more than a little drunk, a little loose. We came back inside, I poured us both a drink to calm down. We just started talking and the next thing I know we’re on the couch. Kissing. Clothes coming off. Then he’s inside me, and I’m not complaining.”

Holly stared at her mother for a long beat. “Of course you weren’t!”

Debbie shrugged again. “If I had known he had a cock like that, I would have invited him over a long time ago!”

Beth laughed. “You’re unbelievable.”

Debbie picked up her own coffee, took a sip. “Says the girl who came home with cum on her face and a bartender on her arm.”

Holly grinned, leaned over, kissed her mother quick, soft, affectionate. “Fair.”

Beth set her mug down, leaned forward on her elbows, chin resting on her laced fingers. Her eyes flicked to Debbie, curious but gentle.

“Does Mike’s wife know?” she asked quietly. “About ... this? About you two?”

Debbie’s smile softened, not defensive, just easy, like the question was one she’d already answered for herself a long time ago.

“Yeah,” she said. “She knows. They’ve had an open marriage since before they moved here. They don’t hide anything from each other. Mike told me last night, after the garage spring snapped and we figured out it wasn’t a gunshot. Said she’s got her own thing going on too. No jealousy, no drama. They just ... do what they want.”