"Clitoral sucking licking vibrator. G-spot tongue vibrator with eight suction modes, ten vibration modes, and five... licking modes, sex toy for women oral stimulator nipple clit anal—"

I choke, immediately becoming acquainted with how unpleasant it is to snort wine through one's nose. "Shiv, please—"

My best friend, sprawled across my couch with a bottle of wine in one hand and her phone in the other, does not stop. The light of her screen illuminates the evil little grin on her face. "This one is forty-six percent off and it can be here by Saturday. Weekend shipping, babe."

"I don't want it," I protest. "That sounds ridiculous. What is 'nipple clit anal?' I don't want that."

"I'll tell you what it is. It's exactly what you need after the week you've had. There. Arriving on Saturday. You'll thank me later."

Raskolnikov—Nik for short—hops onto the back of the couch with a narrowed, golden gaze. He lifts a paw and begins swiping at Shiv's messy bun. It's his way of telling us we've been camped out on the couch for too long and he wants his living room back.

One look at my bitchy, entitled cat has me bursting out in sudden laughter. And it doesn't stop. This is also because of the wine.

"Mhm. This is okay. This is good. Let it out."

"I'm not upset," I sober suddenly, sitting up so fast it feels like someone shoved me in the dryer and flipped it to the highest setting. "I'm literally fine. You're the one who's been obsessively looking at sex toys on Amazon for the last thirty minutes."

"Be that as it may, you just got dumped. That does not constitute fine."

I give an almighty affronted gasp. "I was not dumped!"

The guy I'd been sleeping with called off our arrangement. There was a difference.

"Regardless, I don't get it," Shiv scoffs. "He's lucky you even gave him the time of day for so long. I know I don't see whatever you saw in him."

I roll my eyes. "Of course you don't. I just have a thing, okay? We know this." A thing with dull, strait-laced, good guys. David perfectly fit that bill—until he started catching feelings. Growing up, my mother used to warn me that I'd sufficiently overwhelm whoever I got into a relationship with, and I've found her to be right about at least that one thing.

I need predictable, reliable, right on the cusp of boring. I have what my family has so diplomatically deemed "a strong personality;" I just don't work with someone who's not on the opposite end of that spectrum. We clash. My impulsivity and mercurial tastes need to find a balance somewhere.

"Still, your M.O. is essentially finding the only guys in this city who have absolutely no personality. You're selling yourself short, Viv."

"David had a personality," I argue weakly. 

"David Jones, financial advisor, lover of khakis and perpetual wearer of polos that were always done up to the top button did not have a personality."

Okay, she's right. 

It may sound awful to some, but at least I know what I need. And I'm sure to make abundantly clear to the men I get involved with exactly what they should be expecting. It's a system that's been working for me thus far, despite Shiv's concern. 

I, for one, am grateful that David called things off. It's worlds better than him trying to fight pesky emotions and feelings, secretly hoping they go away and waiting for something that will never happen. That being me returning said feelings.

I shrug. "Believe it or not, I'm fine that I won't be having regular sex for the foreseeable future. I actually feel pretty great."

Another reason I steer clear of relationships? I get bored far too easily. If I'm honest with myself, things with David had felt stale for a while. There wasn't anything about what he did in bed that... wowed me. Come to think of it, I can't remember the last time I got excited when a guy got naked in front of me. 

Oh, the joys of womanhood. Constantly wondering if your standards are too high or if most men just suck. 

"Maybe if you went after someone a little more exciting, the sex would measure up. Ever thought of that?"

I ignore Shiv's eyebrow waggle. "I've had good sex before!" I think... a long time ago. "But it's never worth all the other bullshit that comes with it. There has to be a happy medium. You're telling me it's a myth that the quiet, reserved ones are freaks? I fucking refuse to believe that."

My friend raises her wine. "Well, here's to hoping you find your needle in a haystack. Because that's what your sex life is beginning to look like."

We sadly clink bottles, and Shiv goes back to her phone. "Which brings me back to this... How do you feel about monster dildos?"

My best friend's plan for tonight consisted of chocolate, wine, and sex toys. I appreciate the thought, even though she seems deaf to my constant reassurances that I'm actually fine with my romantic life the way it is. That's just Shiv sometimes. It's hard to get her off something once she has her mind made up.

She's a good friend. Probably the best I've got. Out of the rest of our little friend group, she's the one who's here with me this late on a Tuesday, even after what turned into an extra long and annoying shift at Pulse.

My lazy, somewhat slimy and incompetent manager, Jason, ended up calling me in for a shift purely because he was too fucking unbothered to do some problem solving himself. Shiv, Tori, and I are convinced he doesn't actually do anything. Just calls on other people to put out his fires.

Often, that person is me.

My mind unwittingly flits to the designer suit wearing wall of man that was perched like a stone statue at my bar. He'd interrupted my one night off. I had to come in to finalize his membership status just so he could sit there in silence for two hours and only order one drink. Shiv had regaled me of his stone-cold tendencies with a shudder—she'd been so put off that she'd had Tori serve him instead. Our petite blonde friend is always all too eager to have some face time with the rich and often lonely moguls who sit at our bar.

But no matter how important someone is, I firmly believe they aren't important enough to interrupt my nights off. It's rare when I have those. I had been camped out on my couch in a pile of takeout, braless and zoned out on an episode of The Bachelor.

I had arrived for my shift just in time to glare at his stupid face—not that I could see it that well from across the bar—and memorize those broad shoulders, that angular jaw. Then he'd walked out with Tori, and I'd been busy with my regulars.

"Have you heard from Tori?" I suddenly wonder. "She usually texts when she gets home."

"This one says sex machine gun," Shiv declares, too engrossed in her online shopping spree. She swats my cat away from her hair, and he hops off the couch with an offended hiss.

"A gun? What does it do? Does it look cool?" I fumble my way to the couch, slumping against her blanket clad shoulder to take a look at her phone. The entire thing is a bright blur.

"It's a gun," she announces like this is new information, proceeding to read the entire product title line like she's been doing all night. "Sex machine gun masturbation sex machine for women strong thrust dildo—"

"What the fuck are you guys doing?"

A scream gets caught in my throat at the sudden intrusion, and I have to blink a few times at the fuzzy figure in my doorway. Long, blonde hair. Cute little matching silk pajama set. Tori.

"Finding Viv the perfect sex toy to make her feel a little better about all the awful things that have happened to her this week," Shiv says. "What are you doing?"

"There was only one thing," I interject. "And I feel fine about it."

"David sucked anyway," Tori mutters, voicing an opinion about my latest partner that I know all my friends share. But she sounds slightly subdued, distracted. Normally, she's all too excited to engage in David slander.

"Want to join? We have no more wine," Shiv grins at her roommate.

She and Tori live just a couple floors below me. The two of them are bartenders at Pulse by night and grad students by day. Despite the fact that I technically live alone, we're at each other's places enough that it feels like I have two roommates. Sometimes more than that—when Seth and Nate, the rest of our group, are involved.

I used to think that the more friends I had, the better. Normal people had thriving friend groups who went out all the time and did everything together, right? It wasn't enough to have a few close friends, I had to be known—liked—by as many people possible.

It turns out adulthood had other plans. I quickly realized that not only was that unrealistic, but most people—even the ones with the friend groups I envied—were still lonely. If everyone was lonely anyway, what was I striving for?

The friendships I have around me now have stood the test of time. When you become an adult, you realize that you're lucky if you can have even two people that you consider close and trusted confidants.

"Maybe next time," Tori says with an annoyed edge to her voice. "Can you just come to bed? It's three in the fucking morning and I don't want to be woken up in three hours when you trip over the corner of the couch again. You guys literally just got back from Pulse anyway. I don't know why you need to still hang out."

Shiv and I exchange looks as Tori practically stomps over to us. When she enters the light, my heart plummets and a gasp tears from my throat.

"Tori, what the fuck?"

Her nose is swollen, dried blood crusted around it. She sniffles, dabbing at her eyes. "I'm fine."

"Who did that to you?" Shiv and I are both on our feet, doing our best to navigate the wine and the blankets that keep our limbs hostage as we hover around our friend. Even Nik weaves between our legs, letting out his token scratchy howl-meow.

Tori takes her time composing herself. "It was that guy. The one who came into Pulse tonight."

"What?" I almost screech. "That guy who walked you out?"

As if I need another reason to not like him.

This one, however, extends past petty. Shiv and I spend the next ten minutes attempting to interrogate our friend for more details, but she's relatively tightlipped for some reason. She makes us promise not to report him, but I have half a mind to take my ass down to Pulse right now, pull up his membership information, and find out where he lives so I can pay him a little visit.

I'd get fired, of course. But it might just be worth it.

"Okay, let's go," Tori eventually decides, interrupting our rage plotting of the things we'd like to do to this asshole. "I have class in seven hours and if I'm not in REM sleep in fifteen minutes, I'm going to have a fit."

"Okay, but we are discussing that," Shiv waves a hand around at Tori's face, "tomorrow. Because it's not okay."

We say our goodnights, and I'm picking up the blankets and wine bottles as Shiv turns around in my doorway.

"Damn, there are a ton of boxes out here. Looks like you have a new neighbor."

♛

"I just think you should at least come home for Valentines Day," my mother snips down the phone. "You need to make an effort to see your family on days that are not just major holidays, Vivi. Your father and I need to know how our youngest daughter is doing, living all by herself..."

I roll my eyes, taking a break from hopping around to squeeze my ass into this dress. To hear my mother talk, no one would think I'm a twenty-six-year-old living completely independent from her parents.

"Mom, I just saw you guys for Christmas. I can't take more time off right now. Besides, Valentines Day?" I scoff. "That's hardly a holiday to celebrate with family. What are we gonna do, sit around the dinner table and discuss our love lives?"

Or blessed lack of.

My mother sighs, and I hear aggressive chopping noises as she dices fruits and vegetables for her daily smoothie. "Joseph and Chloe are coming by. It would be nice to have the whole family there. And I just worry—" a loud roar cuts her off, and I yank my phone away from my ear, waiting until she's done blending her health sludge, "I just worry about you working at that club and living in those conditions. Being all alone. It's not healthy."

"Motherfucker," I mutter and my mother gasps. "No, not you, mom. Nik just swallowed one of my hair ties again." My scraggly, four-legged roommate blinks up at me from where he crouches on my bathroom floor.

"And that rodent looking creature you rescued," she laments, latching onto another issue. "For Christ's sake Vivi, you're allergic. I don't understand why you have to be contrarian about everything you do."

Zahra Lee never misses an opportunity to make something into a personal attack against her, especially if it has anything to do with one of her children. Me adopting Nik from a shelter—and him being an older rescue nobody else wanted with behavioral and attitude issues—is just something else to add to the list of things I've done to thwart my parents' almighty authority. Other grievances include: my move out of New York City, my refusal to work in either of the family businesses, and my decision to live in an apartment that I pay for without my parents' help.

My parents worked hard for their wealth, my father building a reputable law firm from the ground up and my mother being one of the city's most highly rated plastic surgeons. Both second generation immigrants, they grew up watching their parents sacrifice and penny-pinch to give their children a life in this country.

It's one of my mother's greatest lamentations that I turned out to be so independent. For most of my life, I've been trying to find the balance between respecting my parents' hard work, not being ungrateful for all they've done to get my siblings and I set up in life, but forging my own path. Having my life be mine. Both my siblings are highly successful in a way that makes my parents proud—Joseph works with my father, and Chloe is a lifestyle blogger with millions of followers.

Me? I work at a club in a small town nestled under the shadow of the Catskill Mountains, away from the commercial, financial, and cultural hub that is New York City. Sometimes if it's too windy, Rhinebeck's Wi-Fi goes out. I spend my days working long hours and being with friends, not networking with the stuffy upper echelons of society. 

It's essentially a living nightmare for my family of perfectionists. But it's home to me, and I'm damn happy with the life I've built for myself here.

"I'll let you know about Valentines Day," I close my eyes and massage my temples. That's under two weeks away, and I'm nowhere near ready to have the Why-Aren't-You-In-A-Stable-Relationship discussion with my parents. It sends my mother into a tailspin every time. She simply can't come to terms with the fact that I'm not going to be married before age twenty-seven. "I really have to go. I'm going to be late for work."

We say our goodbyes and I breathe a sigh of relief when I hang up. You can both love your mother and acknowledge that you need her in small doses. 

I quickly finish getting ready. Nik is being a special brand of asshole today and gets into my makeup drawer, eating half of my eyeshadow and smearing the rest on my carpet.

As I clean up glittery vomit, one glance at the clock tells me I'm already ten minutes late for my shift. Cursing and slathering on mascara as I rush out the door, I run headlong into Shiv. She deftly moves out of the way, managing to keep the two lattes in her hand from spilling.

"I fucking love you," I practically moan, reaching for one, and we embark on the short walk to Pulse. Our heels clack on the sidewalk, drawing curious eyes to our path. Fifteen minutes late, we stride through Pulse's dark, embellished doors, bracing ourselves for Jason's disapproval.

"How big do you think that vein in Jason's forehead will be tonight?"

"That thing has its own fucking zip code," I snort. 

We're laughing as we head to the back, quickly intercepted by our manager and his forehead vein. "Ladies," Jason gives us a greasy smile as we round the bar, attempting to mask his obvious tension at our tardiness. He rests a flat, heavy hand on my lower back in a completely unnecessary gesture and steers me forwards. "Viv, one of your regulars has been asking for you for the last ten minutes. Go on."

"Sorry for being late, Jason. It won't happen again." I smile at him. "Please remove your dirty hands from my body right the fuck now."

Shiv erupts in laughter as he sheepishly steps back. He might be my boss, but he also manages all the other female bartenders. Which means he has his hands fucking full. From dealing with us on our time of the month—which, lucky for him, the lot of us have synced up on—to tolerating our clap-backs and ridicule.

If he's going to be a little touchy, we're going to be a little mean.

My shift breezes by like it usually does. Perhaps it's surprising to some, but I fucking love my job. Rich people are intriguing to me. They've often tried everything money can buy, been to every corner of the world and indulged in everything under the sun, yet are still unhappier than most. They're full of stories, regrets, and vices. They're the most interesting people to talk to—once their filter and that intolerable ego has been stripped down with a few drinks.

It doesn't hurt that they'll tip you a thousand dollars for just being pretty.

At three in the morning, Jason shoos me out and I pull on my coat as I step into the brisk night. Most nights, I get to walk home alone. Shiv typically leaves before me since her work schedule is set around her classes. It might be statistically riskier, even with the mace and taser I keep tucked in my bag, but there's just something undeniably beautiful about the absolute stillness of the night.

It's a time for me to revel in complete silence, the kind that only comes from a sleeping city. I breathe in the icy air—it feels clearer and more cleansing up here in the mountains—and let anything that has taken up space in my head all day evaporate in the crisp breeze.

My life is noisy, and I like it that way. It's not often I find myself enjoying utter silence.

"Stop."

Unwittingly, my feet obey the voice that cuts through the night. On sudden alert, I frantically sweep the area around me, muscles tensed, my hand already buried in my purse and wrapped around the cool metal cylinder of my mace.

There's no one here.

As the seconds tick by, I almost become convinced I imagined such a cold, authoritative voice. I take a cautious step forward.

"I told you to stop."

What the fuck?

Gradually, my eyes start adjusting to the dark, specifically a patch of shadows several feet in front of me. There's a little alcove up ahead, and that's where the voice is coming from.

"I want you to meet with those affected by the accident and offer them the appeasements. You are not to offer them any more than what I've specified." A pause. "And don't tell my brothers you've spoken with me. It's difficult enough to keep Tommaso out of jail. Much less dodge his frequent texts and calls."

There's a man half melted into the shadows, and his back is to me. I immediately notice his height and the broadness of his shoulders that stretch out his midnight-black suit. He's holding a phone to his ear, and a watch that has to be worth millions glints around his wrist.

My interest peaks. Rhinebeck is fairly safe, but there are always incidents that happen under the cloak of night. It can be especially dangerous for the wealthy members of Pulse if it gets too late. They're walking targets if they're not careful.

Yet this man stands in an alley with his back turned to the darkened street. He's either an idiot, or extremely dangerous himself.

I'm suddenly grateful that I decided to change out of my heels. He hasn't heard me. I start taking silent, careful steps back.

The man hangs up the phone, and I freeze as his shoulders ripple and a low groan cuts through the night, like melted butter and sugar. He leans forward against the brick wall, seemingly becoming weak at the knees.

I hasten my efforts. I'm quiet as a mouse, my breaths steady and silent. But somehow, he hears me. Maybe he can feel the presence of another person, maybe he heard my racing heartbeat somehow—but regardless, I don't even have time to scream.

He turns in one rapid motion and then there's a blur of black silk and massive shadows coming at me.

The breath is knocked from my lungs as my back meets the rough brick of the nearest building. Strong hands pin my waist and shoulders. The scent of leather, whiskey, and spiced cologne assaults my senses. The man is bigger than life, unyieldingly hard, terrifyingly strong, and frighteningly... invisible.

His face remains hidden from me, lost in the shadows of the alley that hide us away from the streetlights.

I let out a gasp of pain as one of his hands clamps around my wrists. My mace clatters to the ground. I'd been seconds away from using it in the general direction of the abyss that is his face. I'm staring into shadows, our chests pressed together so tightly that we absorb each other's labored breaths. His puff out evenly against my lips, my stomach dipping at the physical feeling of his closeness.

"Let go of me," I hiss.

The shadows shift, and I imagine he's making some sort of expression. His voice, tight and controlled amid the harsh turbulence of his breaths, cuts deep into my skin.

"Don't do that, Vivienne."

Goosebumps spread across my body, my breaths coming so quickly now that my chest aches. He removes one of his hands, and then I feel a cool press of metal on the exposed portion of my chest.

He's holding me at knifepoint.

"Take my purse. I have a few thousand dollars in there," I snap, angry that I'm offering him my tips. It was one of my best nights. "My jewelry adds up to, like, a hundred bucks. You can have that too if it's really that fucking deep."

From that watch and the silky material of his clothing, I know he's not hurting for money. But my money is all he'll get from me. I'll not let him take anything else.

"I don't want your things," he croons. I can't put a pin on it, but there's something chillingly inhuman about the quality of his voice. "I just want..." he breaks off, the press of the knife intensifying. His breaths shudder to a halt, and I can practically feel the intensity of his focus on the point where the knife almost draws my blood.

I relax every single one of my muscles, letting him have full control of me. His grip lightens just a fraction. It's enough, though, for me to jam my knee as hard as I can into where I know his crotch is.

And if there's one thing about me, I know how to hit. Hard.

All his breath escapes him in a silent whoosh, and he bows against the pain. The knife clatters to the ground and he lets go of me to brace himself against the wall. His hair, surprisingly silky and smooth, brushes against my collarbone.

And I fucking run for my life.

Like the devil himself is chasing me, I run. I weave in and out of different alleys on my way home, achingly familiar with these streets. Once I'm sure he's not following me, I slip into my building and lock myself in my apartment.

"Oh fuck," I gasp, adrenaline coursing through me. My heart hammers and sweat coats my limbs as I make sure my door is locked. Reality comes crashing down, the remnants of my terror still lingering, now mixed with such intense relief. "Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh my God. I almost just peed myself."

Nik streaks from the room in a black blur, startled from my noisy entrance, and I continue to talk to my empty living room. The relief is fading into anger now. "Oh my fucking God. That fucker." Laughter bubbles from my chest, hard and a little crazy, and I desperately wish I could've done more damage. 

After several minutes, my chest is loose enough that I can think clearly, past fantasizing what I should've done to that fucker. I unclench my muscles, sagging against my front door.

As my breaths finally slow into a normal, steady pace, I hear the soft snick of my neighbor's front door slipping shut.