Lying beside me, Lizzie bunches a thick wad of red hair on top of her head and stares at the ceiling. Her breaths churn in and out like butter, soft and smooth. Rich.

“You look like you could use a cigarette,” I joke. This would be the perfect moment for a kiss. Have we even done that? I’m too dazed to remember. But I’d like to do that.

She sits up, her perky breasts bouncing with the vertical jolt. God, those tits were made for my mouth. And the smattering of faint freckles across her chest need a thorough tongue bath. She bounds off the bed, trim hips swaying as she heads to the purse she threw onto the bar when we got here, either hours or minutes ago. My sense of time has melted into oblivion, along with the rest of me.

After rifling through her bag, Lizzie produces a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. Though this is a nonsmoking hotel, like pretty much every hotel in the whole goddamn world these days, I doubt she cares much about the rules. She can afford to pay cleaning fees, if Banging Betties’ several hundred thousand Facebook fans are any indication.

Yeah, I checked after Dodge called. Just Breathe has close to a million. I’m confident in my decision to keep Killer Buzz Float right where they are tour-wise, but Lizzie’s testing my resolve with the barbs she dug into my skin. If I were a lesser woman who let emotions rule, I might give in and paint a pretty picture for KBF with Betty-inspired crayons of greener grass on the other side.

Lizzie grabs a nearly empty water bottle and sets it on the small round table beside a thickly cushioned burgundy chair. She sits, tosses its extra pillows to the floor, and draws a knee up. Her glistening pussy taunts me as if to motion me over. I lick my lips. In the lamplight, she glows like an eerie ghost when she rips the flint on the lighter and kisses it to the cigarette’s butt end. She inhales. Exhales a gray stream of smoke. My nostrils twitch. God, I love that smell.

Lizzie stares out the dark window to the city lights below us. She hasn’t said a word since we finished.

“Do you want me to go?” I ask, afraid of her answer.

She deigns to glance my way and shrugs.

She shrugs.

A blast of pain rockets through me—one I simply cannot weather in a moment that should be filled with tenderness.

Rejection.

I thought aftercare was an important part of submission. That’s what Miles and Toombs told me. Surely, they know about these things. Maybe Lizzie doesn’t.

Or maybe it’s not her way.

But I need it. I need her to hold me in the aftermath of all that transpired. My mind darts in too many directions. My body physically hurts, but my raw emotions flare under the deep cuts she inflicted with that simple flick of her shoulders.

I do not cry. Ever. But I do feel. And Lizzie’s apathy eviscerates me.

Emotional guts hanging out from the gaping wound, I dismount the bed, unsteady but angry enough to compensate with a blush of false bravado. Skin burning, I start to gather my belongings.

“Jillian.”

I look up.

She tosses me the lighter first and then cigarettes. I fumble but catch them. Staring at the little square box, I am lost. She pats the space next to her on the big chair, and the tightness choking my chest releases a tad.

I tentatively stumble to her. My legs are rubber. It’s hard to breathe. She did this to me.

Standing before her, I wait for a more definitive invitation. She takes another drag from the cigarette and flicks the ashes into the water bottle. “You gonna sit or what?”

I settle my butt next to hers. After being so intimate moments ago, I feel miles away. Unsure what to do, I open the box, slowly pull out a cigarette, and stare at it. Smell it. Tuck it between my lips. I already met my quota for the day, but I’ll make an exception. Lizzie snatches the lighter back and sets my smoke afire. We sit like that without words until the cigarettes are nothing but nubs. We drop the ends into the bottle.

“You’re a good lover, Jillian.” She does that thing with her hair again, clutching the mane and tossing it out of her eyes. Still won’t look at me, though.

“You’re,” fucking fantastic, “not so bad yourself.”

“I like getting you off.”

“Ditto.”

Our shoulders touch. Our eyes meet. Our breaths mingle.

She’s going to kiss me.

Is she going to kiss me?

She acts like she’s going to kiss me.

“I have to be up for an early flight tomorrow,” she says.

“Oh.”

She’s not going to kiss me.

“Okay.” Guess that’s my cue to leave.

I stand.

She stands.

We’re naked.

I pick up my clothes and put them on. She busies herself with her phone, which manager Richard must’ve dutifully charged as she demanded earlier, apparently texting someone. I finish dressing and point to the bathroom. “Mind if I …?”

“Go ahead.”

As soon as the door shuts behind me, I grab the vanity and hold on tight. The mirror reveals red skin, but my face is mostly okay. A little makeup will hide the faded handprint tomorrow if it decides to linger. Beaten doesn’t come close to describing the rest of me.

Did I let her down? Did the lack of an audience make sex less thrilling for her? Was I not resilient enough?

I dip my head and splash cold water on my face. Then I use the toilet. I avoid my reflection on the way out.

Lizzie sits on the bed, clothed, still fucking with her phone. The strap-on gear out of sight, the room looks as it did when we first got here, like no one just beat the shit out of me, fucked me stupid, or humiliated me. It’s simply a happy little hotel room where people sleep, wake up, shower, and move on with their lives.

“Ready to go?” a male voice asks from the couch.

I whirl around. Shit. Richard. Clothed in the same expensive suit from before, he sits with one leg crossed over the opposite knee and an arm draped across the back of the couch. Guess I’m not the only one Lizzie likes to push around. Charging her phone, getting rid of her one-night-stands. He’s definitely her bitch too.

“Ah, yeah. Thank you.” I check my watch. Fuck, it’s two o’clock.

He stands. I grab my purse. Lizzie types.

He opens the door for me. I walk through and glance back. She doesn’t notice.

Richard drives me home.

To a bus.

With cocks and balls on the wheels.