When you’re a twenty-year-old triple platinum singer you get an image.
Except mine was all wrong. On drugs; pregnant; fucking my manager.
But I wasn’t; it was all lies. I was a good girl.
But now I’m done being the good girl, because it has gotten me nowhere.
I spent the last year in love with a guy who I was paying to fuck me.
A guy who fell in love with someone else.
But now I’m over it. Now it’s about me.
If the world thinks I’m a bad girl, then hell, that’s what I’ll be.
I’ll show them bad.
Let’s find out how promiscuous I can be.
Not me. Well, not the real me, anyway.
I slipped a finger through the tie of my robe, letting it fall open. I arched my shoulders, letting the material float down my shoulders. Goosebumps hit my arms as I stood there confidently. Inside, I was a screaming mess.
What the hell am I doing? What if he touched me? What if I freaked out?
Sure, I’d had plenty of sex since the rape, but none sober. I hadn’t let anyone touch me without being completely smashed first.
He stared at me for a moment, his eyes wandering over my curves as time seemed to freeze. I couldn’t read his expression, but the longer he stood there, watching me, the more I began to panic. Without saying a thing, he bent down and retrieved the robe, threading my arms back
“I’m not here to fuck you, Beth.” He spoke softly, his hands running over the soft silk of my robe, down my arms to my fingers. I jumped back, both relieved and confused.
Well, this is embarrassing.
When she’s not writing, she can usually be found looking for something to read.