In Need of a Distraction |18+| Book Two | ✔

Chapter 6

Timay

I exhale deeply, loving the darkness surrounding me.

I know I said I'm not at the stage where I blame myself but honestly, why me?

Why do I attract cheating, scumbags?

It's not like I'm the village bicycle. My vajayjay is still in perfect working order. I give a kickass blowie – I haven't received any complaints yet – my tits are sufficient and dare I say succulent.

My ass is on the bigger side but c'mon who doesn't like some ass? Something to grab on?

My stomach isn't flat, flat. There is some meat on my bones, something – love handles – for a man to grab onto. I've never had a problem with my curvaceous figure, in fact I've always owned it and loved it!

I haven't always loved this about myself but when I realized how sexy it looks, I began to love the way the small of my back curved in, making my pronounced ass pop even more.

As an awkward twelve-year old I tried to rectify my deformity, at least that's what I thought about it at the time. I tried to walk with the lower portion of my back pushed out and straightened which made me look all kinds of awkward. Ahh, the good ole days of my prepubescent years.

Not the point.

It's happened to me twice, now. Should I be asking that question, is it me, am I the problem?

I know I called him by another man's name while his hand was literally down my pants but is that a reason to seek out another woman or am I the other woman?

I sit upright in bed, the light coming through the windows blinding me and I wince.

Yes, I'm hiding in my bed, under the covers like a scared little girl – pssh, as if that'll keep the monster from finding you.

Like hello! You're that big lump on the bed! You're not that hard to miss.

Fuck, once again, back to the point. Am I the other woman that was screwing another woman's boyfriend or fiancé?

Have I become that?

Ugh! So many questions, so little fucking answers.

I pace my bedroom, stomping my foot out of frustration – childishly – hoping it'll ease that said frustration, but of course, it doesn't work. I mean why would it? See, so many questions.

I think it's time to numb my mind, prevent the brain cells – what little I have left – from working, but I can't turn to the one thing that has never let me down – tequila – again. I need to understand with a level head what the freakedy-fuck – is that even a word? Who cares, it is now – has transpired.

I can't keep running away from my problems.

"Timay, what is with all the racket?" Mom barges into my childhood bedroom, fuming.

"Oh, um," I look around, spotting a hardcover book I use for my notes laying on the floor. "I dropped that and when I got out of bed I tripped and nearly fell. Sorry," I slouch my shoulders. "For all the racket."

Her scrutinizing gaze pierces through me, and I feel like screaming "I'm guilty!" Even though I did nothing wrong.

"Does this have anything to do with the engagement you refused to tell your father and I about?" Mom raises a mistrusting brow with her arms folded.

Right, truth time.

Ethan never asked my father for my hand in marriage – I feel so old saying that – even though he was like a father to him growing up. The real kicker is, I never told my parents that we got engaged.