Free Follow (Social Media #1) by J.A. Huss Page A

anniversaries.
    That’s not true. I’ve been promoted. I will, at the very least, be doing corporate parties and club events. I might even be assigned some more unusual jobs—like conventions and fundraisers. I’m moving up after only two years, so why do I belittle my job? It’s not insignificant.
    Because, Grace, negativity is a lifestyle choice and you fly that flag proudly.
    Right.
    Which was why I was so pissed that he thinks my hesitation is all about him. It’s not. It’s about me. Who gives a fuck about him? He’s rich and powerful. I can’t possibly hurt him. He’s got nothing to lose at all in this relationship and he knows it. His smug ass knows that if I sign a NDA, he’s safe.
    I’m never safe. There is no distance, no amount of running, no fairy tale or fantasy world or Dirty Heaven that will keep me safe from my secrets.
    I roll over and find my phone. Three thirty. I get out of bed and put my shorts and sandals on, then grab my key card, my phone, and a fistful of cash, and go looking for a vending machine.
    Or something. Who cares, I just need to leave.
    I find the cold drinks machine in the open lobby of the bar. Workers are still inside there, cleaning up or doing whatever it is that bar workers do after the drunks go home. I grab my Diet Pepsi and walk down to the beach. It’s not closed anymore, the party is over. I hope Vaughn’s sister had a nice night, but if what he said was true, she’s probably still wondering if she made the right choice.
    I do think it’s sweet that he cares enough about her feelings to not influence them. The intense moment they shared earlier this evening is proof that she hangs on every word. If he says she’s not in love, she’s not in love.
    She trusts him, Grace.
    Good for her. That doesn’t mean I have to trust him. The perfect world I’ve built for myself is at stake, after all.
    I sit in the sand and open my soda, the crack of the lid and spray of bubbles familiar and comforting.
    My phone buzzes and I watch it light up in the darkness. A call from an unknown number. I ignore it and drag my thoughts back to my unsettled life.
    Am I really surprised that my dream man is not what I built him up to be?
    My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from an unknown number.
    Answer me, Grace .
    I pick up the phone and sigh, then press send for the number. It rings. He picks up before the first one ends. “Don’t ignore me. I hate that.”
    “Oh.”
    “Oh?”
    “What do you want from me?”
    He’s silent for a few seconds and for a second I think the call dropped or he hung up. But then I hear him breathing. “Did I not articulate it clearly? Did I leave something out? Did I—”
    “How did you get my number?” Why does my Dirty Heaven angel have to be a total demon? I look up at the stars and shake my head at some false God. Why are you fucking with me ?
    “I have access,” he says, as if that explains my question about the number. “I have needs, Grace. You have needs. You have one more day here, then—”
    “How the fuck do you know so much about me?”
    “That’s another spanking,” he says dryly.
    And I have to admit, spankings are something I can get on board with. I have no idea why, but it’s so hot. The mere image of myself lying over his knee, my ass in the air, my face pressed into the mattress while he tells me I’m bad and slaps my ass. Holy Mother, just… yes .
    “I’m going to make that ass bright red and I’m going to make it hurt. Do you understand, Grace? You are disobeying me on purpose and I’m going to make it hurt. I’m going to pull your hair, force your head back so I can see your eyes when the flat palm of my hand smacks against the curve of your bottom, and I’m going to enjoy every wince. Every tear. And each time you flinch or buck against my punishments, I’m going to withhold pleasure. But each time, Grace”—his voice softens now, just a whisper, just a breath of air that speaks my name—“each