Outside the Lines (Rebel Hearts #1)
Read Outside the Lines (Rebel Hearts #1) Online
Authors: Emily Goodwin
Outside the Lines
Book One in The Rebel Hearts Series
Copyright
©
2015 by Emily Goodwin
Edited by Kristina Cercelli of Red Rose Editing
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or places is purely coincidental.
To Madelyn, my littlest princess
CHAPTER ONE
Should I be ashamed I’m walking into a sex toy store with a wallet full of cash my grandmother sent me for my twenty-fifth birthday? And that I plan to spend said cash on a new vibrator since mine shorted out in the tub? I adjust my purse and pull my dark-blonde hair over my face, surreptitiously concealing my identity in case of major crisis number one happening: seeing someone I know.
I inhale, swallow down any lingering ounce of prude I have in me, and step into the shop. Normally I’d one click this sucker from Amazon, but after two weeks of no B.O.B.—and a year of no-real life boyfriend—I’m desperate. And why pay for next-day shipping when the sex toy shop was on my way home from work?
Someone moans and I freeze. What the fuck? Are people actually trying out the toys? No, that makes no sense. It’s porn. It has to be porn. The same moan fills the store again. And again. It’s rhythmic, like it’s stuck on repeat.
“Come on in, honey, and she’ll stop,” someone calls from the counter, hidden behind a display of glow-in-the-dark condoms. Oh, and a few flavored ones too.
She’ll stop? I blink, my legs still frozen, and then it hits me that instead of a motion-censored bell ringing, a lady in the throes of ecstasy moans. Fitting. Very fitting.
I step inside and look around. I’ve never been inside a sex shop before, though it’s not because I have anything against them. With the lack of real peen in my life, I’ve come to rely on this sort of thing. But I always order online. What’s the anonymity of the internet for, anyway?
“Can I help you find anything?” the woman at the counter asks. Her name tag lets me know she goes by “Vixen.” That has to be a fake sex store worker name, right? She’s short and plump with shoulder-length hair that’s dyed in various shades of red. I stare at it a little too long before diverting my eyes. I like it. But my boss would have a bitch fit if I showed up to work with colorful hair.
“I’m just looking,” I say and remind myself not to feel embarrassed. The woman works at the Adult Toybox, after all. She’s seen it all and then some. Still, there’s something about a single woman walking alone into one of these places that makes you feel like society is pointing their finger at you.
Well, fuck you and your social norms, society.
I walk forward and turn to the left, going down an aisle of games for lovers. Games that require two people. Or three … or four or more, as the front of that box says. I peruse down the aisle, curiosity replacing embarrassment, and whimsically think of a day when I can come in here with a boyfriend and buy something kinky for the night.
Edible undies?
Nah, too predictable and probably too sticky.
Butt plugs?
My cheeks clench at the thought. Nope. Definite no.
Handcuff, blindfolds, and a flogger?
Still predicable, but something I’m willing to try.
I pass through a display of lingerie, stifling a laugh at a male thong with an elephant truck to hold the shaft, and find what I am looking for. I actually smile when I see the shelves full of dildos and vibrators. I pick them up, looking at the boxes for … I really don’t know. Details? I just need something waterproof.
“That’s a good one,” Vixen says, startling me. The woman is like a cat. I didn’t hear her coming. “I have it and love it.”
“Oh, that’s good to know,” I mumble.
“My husband likes to use it on me too. You can charge it on the wall and it’s super quiet, so the kids won’t hear even if they’re in the next room.”
I know my eyes are as big as saucers right now. I can’t turn and look at her just yet. I blink, having to say something to break the tension.
“Is it waterproof?” I blurt.
“You betcha. And it has multiple settings. Want me to show you how it works?”
She takes the demo off the shelf and for one horrified second I think she’s going to hike her skirt and literally show me. My heart settles back into my chest when she holds it out and pushes a button, then turns up a dial.
“Hear that? Barely anything.”
“That is nice,” I say. “I’ll take it.”
She smiles. “I’ll put it by the register so you can keep looking.”
“Nah, I’m good with just that today.”
“All right.” She turns and we walk to the counter together in awkward silence. She slips behind the register and I dig my hand into my purse, feeling for my wallet. I have a moment of panic when I realize I didn’t look at the price tag of the Silent Knight vibrator and hope I have enough cash to cover it. I could use the cash I had then put the rest on my card, but I’m close to maxing out that card—as well as my other one—and need to minimize expenses until payday at the end of the week.
“This,” Vixen says and grabs a small white bottle covered in red Xs and Os. “This stuff is great. Just put a little on your clit before the action and it’ll enhance the pleasure.”
I will myself not to blush. Hearing someone talk so openly was refreshing, but a little unexpected.
“After three kids,” she goes on and scans the vibrator. I watch with wide eyes as the total pops up on the little screen. Thank God. I have enough cash to pay for it and pick up food on the way home. “I need a little pick-me-up before the hubs and I get down and dirty, ya know?”
“Yeah,” I say and unzip my wallet. I considered myself an open book, but hearing Vixen talk about every detail of her sex life makes me feel like I had a lot more opening up to do. I pay and take my bag.
“Have fun tonight!” Vixen says as I turn to go.
“I will, thanks,” I say automatically before I realize she’s referring to me having some solo time with this neon-pink new best friend. Whatever. I smile and shake my head. “Have a good rest of your day.”
“I get off in an hour,” she says. “I can manage.”
I hike my purse back up on my shoulder, not exactly sure what’s accumulated in it make it so heavy, and push open the door, signaling a moan from the censor.
I get one foot through the threshold when two women come up, stopping and stepping to the side to let me through.
“Felicity?” one of them asks.
On its own accord, my head turns to the source of my name. Then my brain kicks in a millisecond too late, reminding me that getting noticed was major crisis number one. But as soon as I see the angelic face of Mindy fucking Abraham, I’m in major crisis number two, which is seeing Mindy fucking Abraham anytime, anywhere, let alone here, several towns over from where we grew up.
It’s amazing how just one glance at a person can make you feel so much.
And right now I’m feeling like we’re back in high school and she’s sitting at the popular table after being the new girl for two days while I’ve been trying for two years to get those kids to even know my name. I’m feeling like I just saw her making out with Todd Overman, my crush since seventh grade who I was sure would eventually fall for my nerd-girl charm and make lots of babies with me. Just looking at her flawless skin and perfect hair reminds me of everything I wasn’t back then, of everything I’m still not now, and how unfair it is that people like Mindy fucking Abraham get ahead in life just by being pretty.
From the day we met nearly ten years ago, that woman has made it her personal mission to one up me in any and everything. Except, not really. She’s just naturally better than me, and her lack of trying only made me hate her even more when we were teens.
Just once glance at her and the self-esteem I’ve spent years building comes crashing down and I’m shaken to my core. It took me until I became an adult to finally accept myself—to an extent. I still have a ways to go, I know—and embrace my flaws and fly my freak flag high with pride. And yet standing here, feeling like a sixteen-year-old girl hugging my X-Men notebook to my chest as I blink back tears and feel the burn of embarrassment in my cheeks, questioning everything.
Fuck.
After a mishap at MIT, I ended up graduating from our local college, and low and behold, a few classes with Mindy fucking Abraham. She never said anything to me, never acted like she had once mocked me to the point of tears over my Harry Potter obsession.
“Nope,” I say and reach into my purse, fingers catching on the straps as I madly wrestle the contents for my sunglasses. I stab myself in the face in my haste to put them on. “You must have gotten me confused with someone else.”
“Oh, sorry,” Mindy says and walks past. “You have a familiar face.”
“I get that a lot,” I say with a nod and keep walking.
“I swear that’s her,” Mindy whispers to the woman next to her. I keep walking, not stopping until I’m next to my Malibu. I press the button on the door handle and plop into the driver’s seat, exhaling. I’m a bit ashamed for letting myself come undone so easily. I shake my head, put my parcels in the seat next to me, and start the car. I’m calmed when Taylor Swift comes on, reminding me to shake all this off.
I grab Taco Bell on the way, thinking more and more about trying out the new vibrator the closer I get to home. I pull into the narrow, one-car garage attached to my town house, sliding sideways out of the car to avoid hitting my bike.
“Hey, Ser Pounce,” I say to a fat orange and white cat that slinks around my ankles when I walk into the house. I kick off my black kitten heels and pad through the laundry room into the kitchen, sitting at the small island counter. I dig into my food as I unpackage the vibrator, more excited than I should be to discover it’s fully charged. I toss it on my bed for later, do a bit of much-needed housework, and then log onto my computer.
I’m tempted to look up Mindy on Facebook, but eventually resist. Nothing good comes from online stalking, and I don’t want to deal with the ill feelings I know I’ll get when I see how perfect her life it.
But hey, it’s not like my life is bad. I’m new to this town, having moved here six months ago for work. I hadn’t made any good friends yet, besides my boss and his boyfriend. I wasn’t particularly worried. I knew I’d made friends eventually. I still talked to my best friend, Erin, pretty much daily online or via text message, and I had a large group of online gamer friends. I couldn’t complain about being lonely, that was for sure.
I text Erin, telling her about my awkward sex shop experience (her hatred of all things Mindy is almost as deep as mine), then settle in at my computer to play League of Legends for just an hour or so. Ser Pounce curls up in my lap, not bothered by my talking and angry muttering during the game.
At two AM I realize I need to get my ass in bed or I’m going to be dragging in the morning. Figuring if I skip the new workout routine I’m trying to stick to—it’s not like I do much anyway—I can sleep in another forty-five minutes and be okay. I change into my PJs and collapse into bed, finding the neon-pink vibrator tangled in the sheets. I pick it up, wrapping my fingers around its rubber tip, and bite my lip.
Well, I do sleep better after a good orgasm, after all.