Page 8 of Wicked Love

She can’t find women who are truly broken for me to take care of.

The ones she finds fake it, but generally not well enough.

Don’t get fucking smart with me, kid.

Grant is sick and fucking tired of cleaning up after you.

No one asked him to.

“I can clean up my own fucking mess,” I huff and toss the phone onto the bed. “If I ever actually fucking make one.”

The phone buzzes again, and I reluctantly lift it from the plush duvet.

Your messes are going to fall on all of us one day.

Stop being so fucking sloppy.

Whatever.

Go through Liz.

And start cleaning up your fucking messes.

I got it.

They might all be older than me, but I don’t know why they all have to treat me like I’m a fucking child.

Fucking midnight, and now, I’m wide the fuck awake again.

And really fucking pissed off.

I only managed a few hours of sleep before dreams of that incessant brunette woke me yet again. Knowing I won’t be getting back to sleep any time soon, I toss back the cover and momentarily shiver when the cool air-conditioned breeze hits my naked skin. I slide from the bed and forgo clothes. My bare feet pad along the hardwood floor as I make my way to the kitchen.

I open a cabinet and grab a glass, filling it with water from the refrigerator. After drinking it in a single gulp, I place the empty glass on the counter before reopening my phone. My thumbs slide over the screen as I scroll through my contacts. I pause briefly on Liz’s name before continuing to scroll.

I need a girl.

MADAME

I’ve told you not to text me here.

And I told you I need a girl.

$10K and open for anything.

The usual?

You know what I like.

But blonde this time.

A moment passes before the next message arrives, this one a photo. Of exactly what I’m looking for. The blonde woman in the photo is exquisite. So fucking gorgeous that she could grace the cover of a thousand magazines.

I want her until I say I’m done.

$50,000 for the week.

Until I’m done with her.