Free Unconventional (The Manhattanites #4) by Avery Aster Page A

bathroom wall. BDSM this and BDSM that was promoted all over the place.
    Was all this Circus Bazaar stuff really necessary? I wasn’t big on theatrics. Sure, I liked my lovers in multiples, but other than that, I wanted my sex plain and simple: under the covers, lights off, talk only if necessary, and I come first.
    Literally.
    I know. Silly me. I’d had sex with those two men for years, more than I could count. But I couldn’t figure out why that day it seemed as if I’d never really been with either one of them before. We hadn’t really had balls-to-the-wall crazy monkey sex since my diagnosis. Would the new me make love any differently? My vagina was the same. I still got horny.
    Overwhelmed, I had no idea they’d remained faithful during my treatments. That was a colossal deal. I’d been against monogamy for ages, and in a way, we already were very much exclusive. I thought about marrying them. Boy, do I have regrets for the way I handled their proposal. Ugh. I’m such a bitch. I hope I get a second chance to make this up to them.
    I owed Luigi and Rocco my life. I wanted to do this for them, and I needed to do it for myself, too. At least to see if I still had my mojo. If I don’t…well…I could always get a career designing military apparel for the Italian government.
    Haahhh.
    Leaning my face into the sink, I turned the faucet on and splashed water over my cheeks. Cold. Refreshing.
    You’d think for as popular as the club was there’d be a million women in there beautifying themselves. Then I realized our handbags and clothes were all at coat-check. Similar to the rest of the woman there, I didn’t have my Chanel fashions, Birkin bags, and sunglasses to hide behind. Just our bodies and ourselves. Truthfully, I preferred hiding behind things and people.
    My cellphone vibrated on my wrist.
    I dried my face on a nearby towel, pinched my cheeks for color, and looked at the phone.
    The screen read, Viveca Farnworth.
    WTF does she want? Last week that woman tried to bury me.
    Feeling the anxiety of the fashion show all over again, I took a deep breath, pushed the speaker button on, and greeted, “Ciao, bitch .”
    Sì . I’m a bitch, but Vive is a mega-bitch!
    FYI.
    She cackled. “Honey, it’s your favorite frenemy, calling from rehab. Listen, it’s morning here on Long Island, I just woke up, and saw you and your hawt lovers plastered all over the news.”
    “My darling, it’s nice to see the nuthouse lets you watch TV.” My tone was doused in sarcasm, but I couldn’t help it. If she had been standing in front of me right then, I’d have decked her one.
    “Funny. It’s a rehab facility, not a funny farm. Although there are a few whackadoos here, if you know what I mean.”
    “Uh-huh.” I tried to humor her, but I wanted to scream.
    “Your sexual safari story has already gone global and from the itinerary the New York Times published, it’s just getting started.”
    “Don’t get too excited. Other than dancing, drinks, posing for the paparazzi, and a hand job, nothing much else has happened.”
    She sighed heavily into the phone. “Honey, for someone who is getting paid to travel throughout Europe with two pussy-wetting men, you certainly don’t sound too excited.”
    “Wanna trade places? I’ll gladly take your Long Island spa and you can be here in Europe getting tied up and fucked five ways from Friday.”
    She laughed.
    “Vive, why are you calling?”
    “Two reasons.”
    I braced myself. Honestly, I didn’t want to know what they were, but I had to be kind. Wasn’t that what frenemies did? So I replied, “And they are?”
    “I’d like to apologize for being so harsh with my editorial. I’m sorry.”
    “What brought this on?”
    “Funny you should ask. Today, I had a session with my therapist. He helped me come to the revelation that I may have taken some of what I’m going through in rehab out on my review of your fashion show and since Debauchery magazine is the number-one