A sharp ringing sound pierces through the dark depths of my dreams, so I groan, flipping over onto my tummy while squeezing the pillow to my ears. “Make it stop!” The nuisance doesn’t stop though, oh no, it continues.

“Isa!” Devon—the best friend—storms into my room, the door handle hitting the back of my bedroom wall.

He snatches my phone from my bedside drawer and flashes it in front of me. “Answer your fucking phone.”

He must see that I’m not about to answer my phone or him, so he answers, “Hello?” Devon groans down my phone. “Yes, ma’am.” The mattress dips from underneath me. “Isa!” he whispers harshly. “It’s Lydia, wake up!”

“Sorry, I’m dead,” I murmur, snuggling deeper into my warm blankets.

“You asked for it…” something drops to my bed and then he walks out.

“Isa! Are you still asleep? It’s midday! For goodness sake, woman, get up!”

I let out a throaty groan while shoving the blankets off myself.

Fucking Devon, putting my phone on speaker.

Massaging my temples, I close my eyes. “Yes? What do you want!”

“The charity auction is tomorrow. I expect you to be here. Both your father and I do…”

“I can’t. I have work.” I flip my warm squishy blankets off my body.

“You’re an artist. Your job is not that important. Reschedule.”

I swing my legs off the bed and pull my ruffled socks up my legs. “My paintings don’t allow me to reschedule. Sorry, the creative brain curse, it means we’re a slave to ourselves.” I walk into my closet and tug down a pair of tight ripped skinny jeans and a clingy off the shoulder crop top. I have a slender body with a bubble butt and double DD’s. Devon says I have the body all men crave and all women envy, I’m not sold. I have wide ass hips and tiny legs. That means, when I buy a size two in jeans, they’re almost always tight around my butt while being loose around my waist. But these jeans are my favorite. They’re washed denim with a couple holes in the knees of each leg. They’re my favorite because they tuck and shove all of my skin in, and by skin I mean fat. The crop top is for added innocence since these are practically hoochie jeans.

Taking out a pair of nude strappy heels, I dump everything onto my bed. I wonder if this top will go with those dashing hoops I bought last week. Why am I caring what goes with what ou—

“Are you listening to me, Isa? You need to attend. Your father has important men coming tomorrow, and we need the family together!”

“For what— exactly?” I shuffle out of my loose cotton shirt, throwing it across the room. I’m not a tidy human. It drives Devon crazy, but I think it’s good for him to realize if he ever decides to settle down, that not all woman—or men— are uptight little OCD clean freaks. Some of us, don’t care.

Some of us, think there are more important things to waste your time on. Like I don’t know…eating.

“For the election, Isa, for goodness sake. You know your father is in his second term running for the presidency. You need to support this family whether you agree with some of your father’s decisions or not, it’s imperative that you attend. Especially with the end drawing near.”

“Jeeez.” I clip my strapless bra on. “How much did he pay you for that speech?”

“Isa…” she exhales. As much as I love to ruffle my stepmom’s feathers, deep down, I don’t want to overly-stress her out. My father does that enough for both of us.

“I’ll be there, Lydia.” Picking up my phone, I hang up and toss it back onto my bed just as Devon waltzes back in with his gym shorts hanging casually off his hips and a tight tank clinging to his chest.

Around a mouthful of granola, he points with his spoon. “You’re looking much more awake.”

My eyes narrow. I know it’s not his fault, but being mad at Devon is always fun, and anyway, now I’m in a pissy mood in general because I have to fucking fly to Washington.

“You got sucked in, huh?” He grins at me around his spoon, his boyish dimples sinking into his cheeks. Devon is handsome, that’s a given. He has thick lashes which curve around his ocean blue eyes, a messy mop of blond hair, and a hint of a smooth golden tan that I’m guessing, he inherited from his part Spanish background.

“Only because I didn’t want to be a pain to Lydia.” A guy walks past behind Devon down our hallway, and I snap my eyes back to a guilty looking Devon.

“And who was that?” I add a quirked eyebrow.

“That?” he looks over his shoulder innocently. “What?”

“Devon!” I bite at him.

“It’s not as—” another person walks past him, only this time, it was a girl.

“Really?” I deadpan. “You had to go there?”

He grins at me, his baby blue eyes lighting up my room and enough to break through my pissy mood.

I sigh in defeat. “I’m just jealous. I haven’t gotten any in well… almost a week.” Collecting up the rest of my clothes, my head slightly hanging between my shoulders. In this day and age, the word ‘Nymphomania’ is tossed around about as much as said ‘nymphos,’ but I truly believe both Devon and I suffer with this condition. Both for different reasons. I don’t know much about Devon’s family life. In fact, any time I ever asked about his family he always shut down, but I know my reasons have a lot to do with my home life. You know, ‘she wasn’t loved enough as a child’ blah blah. It’s all fun and games until someone really wasn’t ‘loved enough as a child.’ I have issues. Deep issues that I run away from by the temporary void sex gives me. I’m working on it, I guess. But if I’m being honest, I haven’t gotten much better.

“Well…” Devon places his bowl on my dresser, coming further into my room. I watch as each muscle clenches with every movement. “You know I can scratch that itch, baby.”

“Don’t!” I hold a single finger up. “I’m not… no. I’ll be okay. I’ll go out with Jen tonight.”

I could go out with Jen, but in all honesty, a night out with Jen isn’t always a good time.

“Baby, you know you need it…” Devon begins, inching toward me. “You need to find you a daddy. One who will not just rock your world, but fucking smash it into pieces.” Devon starts air humping the post of my bed, and I toss my shirt at him. “Get out!”

I need a new best friend.

Once he finally leaves, I tug on my jeans, jumping up and down to squeeze the goods in and then throw my shirt over my head. Walking into the bathroom, I fluff my dark hair up until it falls in natural waves down to my tailbone. I quickly dust on some make-up, I don’t wear much of it and hardly wear it so it’s all cracked and old. Brushing on my mascara, I chance a real look at myself in the mirror. I wouldn’t say I was unfortunate in the looks department, but I have insecurity issues that I fight with every day, which is why, in short, I have sex with men because it makes me feel good. It fills a void that was left inside of me when my mom abandoned me and my nonexistent father decided that his career was more important than raising his daughter. So yes, I enjoy sex. It’s something that makes me feel good—what’s so wrong with enjoying that? I’m so sick of the slut-shaming in this day and age. A girl gets called a slut if she has the sexual appetite of a man. Well, I’d wear that badge with pride and polish it with my middle finger.

Exhaling, I place my mascara back into my make-up bag and look back at myself in the mirror. My eyes are a deep green, almost like greenstone, while my skin is more on the paler side — thanks to my mom’s Scandinavian heritage. I do have my father’s angular jawline and his small pixie nose. I think. I’ve only ever seen one photo of my mom and it was an old image of her and my dad sitting around a dinner table. The photo was in color—I’m not that old— but it’s the only time I’ve ever seen a photo of her. I have her skin and eyes, from what I could see. Maybe even her black heart.

Shoving my phone into my back pocket, I head out of my bedroom and into our tiny living room. We live in a small apartment in the French Quarters of New Orleans, but my parent’s house—outside of the Whitehouse, the house I grew up in— is in Greenwich in Connecticut. So every time I have to fly home, that’s a two-hour flight. Lydia always pushes me to use my father’s private jet, but I’d be much more comfortable traveling amongst civilians just in case someone decides to shoot my father’s plane down or something crazy like that. Running for second term presidency, we have Peter S. Johnson. Aka, my dad. Though he’s never been overly active in my life as a teen, he’s still my dad. He stands for family values but doesn’t seem to have any himself. Figures. In order for him to keep up appearances and keep his unscathed name peachy and squeaky clean, I have obligations. It’s unfortunate really, and it’s why I moved to New Orleans in hopes to leave all this behind me, or rather, run away from it all. But no matter how fast and how good I am at running—

“One of your MIB taking you to the airport?” MIB is code for Men in Black. Sometimes, Devon will even drop down and sing his own version of the Will Smith song.

Yep. Secret services. The president’s daughter gets zero play time. It’s why, occasionally, (maybe like three times), I have done a solid runner. Before I can answer Devon, my phone beeps and I slide it open.

Isa, Jerry will take you straight to the airport. Try to be early, please. You’re a headache for all the workers.

Ahhh, now by workers, I’m guessing she’s talking about my friend Daniel who is also the pilot of our private jet. This is my father’s second league running, so all the workers are well acquainted with me. I send a message back to Lydia.

(rolls eyes)

Not funny, Isa.

(double rolls eyes)

….

See you soon.

I giggle, tossing my phone back onto my bed. She has a point, and I shouldn’t be making the workers’ life extra hard. Truth is, most of them have been around me more than my father because he’s just never home. After gathering up the last of my things and tossing them into my suitcase, I yell out, “Devon!” while scooping my hair into a high ponytail.

He saunters into my room with a towel wrapped around his torso. Water is still cascading down his rippling muscles, and I swear to God, fucking steam I still floating off his skin. The sweet smell of his soap hits me instantly, and I come hither him. “My family stressed me out.” I end with a pout.

Devon grins, gripping the edge of the towel and dropping it, giving me a full display of his athletic body. His thick cock falls into the palm of his hand, all angry and hot.

He pumps himself once, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. “Come wrap your lips around me, Isa, and suck me good like I know you can.”

I walk toward him, dropping to my knees while looking up at him from under my lashes. “Always.” Then I wrap my lips around Devon’s length, sucking on him slowly and licking around the rim of his cock. Peeking up at him, I slowly suck him deep down my throat. He groans, gripping my hair and tugging my hair back until the tip of his cock is resting on my plump lower lip. He grips his dick, rubbing his tip all over my lips.

“God, I want you to be mine, Isa.”

Ice fucking water. Nope. No. I inch back, my mouth slamming shut and my jaw tensing. “You know the rules, Devon. Say something like that again and I’ll find someone else to fuck me.”

He growls softly. “Fine. Get on the bed.”

I obey, and Devon does what he does best. Making me feel good, wanted, sexy. All until I can’t feel my legs and I almost miss my flight. Oops.