And I’ve got Grace. He might be a little jealous of that too, because while Conner can get a girl, he can’t seem to keep one.

I never have that problem.

My problem is how to get rid of them.

Chapter Nineteen

IHaveLostMyMind

WHAT the hell am I doing?

This thought runs through my brain the whole way back to my bungalow.

Because I mean, what the hell, Grace? I do not even recognize myself right now. Since when do I let a man treat me like this? And yeah, I get that he’s a movie star, a man I’ve been obsessed with for years—but this?

I admit, I’m not usually one for confrontation and I have a hard time saying no to people. But this is not me. This person cannot be me.

And what the hell was that back there? He planned for me to meet his parents so he could humiliate me.

I don’t care how many ways you look at it, that’s what that was. Pure and simple. He was mad because I can’t be like the sluts he likes to f**k, so he made me pay for it.

Note to self, saying no to Vaughn Asher has consequences.

Right. But so does saying yes. Because saying yes gives him permission to do this shit. Is this what I am? A plaything for a wealthy man? Willing to sell myself to gain—what? What am I getting out of this tryst, as he likes to call it?

Fame? No, certainly not. He wants me to be a secret. Which is fine with me, I’m with his sister Sam on that shit. I have no desire to be in the spotlight with him or as a victim of his fetishes.

Gifts? I huff out a long breath of air. Yes, I have to admit as I look down at my clothes, I accepted a gift from him and I enjoyed it.

And now this whole outfit feels dirty.

I push my key card into the bungalow door and immediately begin taking off my clothes. I fold it all very carefully, sans underwear, since Vaughn still has those in his pocket, and place it all back inside the box. I run my fingertips across the fabric for a moment, enjoying the quality. It’s something I’d never in a million years be able to just buy without guilt over spending so much.

This makes me pause, because I’m like most girls who grew up with lots of limits in place. I want more. I do, I admit it. I want more than just a working a job that takes up most of my life just so I can afford to live in a neighborhood that doesn’t scare the shit out of me. I want to be taken to dinner and given presents to make me feel special. I want all those things.

But the reality of that want is that the men who are capable of fulfilling it are always asking for more than I’m willing to give in return. This present was given to me for the wrong reasons. It was a payoff. It was a consolation. It was a bribe.

Do as I say, Grace, and I’ll give you the things you want.

But do I really want them if that’s how I have to get them? Isn’t getting them part of the journey? Aren’t things like success and money and a nice big house supposed to be the result of hard work, determination, tenacity, and a little bit of luck?

This dress symbolizes all the wrong things for me. It was all luck. There’s no hard work in being Asher’s plaything. There’s no satisfaction beyond an orgasm. I don’t want to be lucky, I want to be good. I want to succeed at more than just following the sexual commands of an ego-inflated movie star.

And I’m ashamed of myself for allowing this to happen. For being drawn in, for being seduced by him.

He seduced me into being someone else.

And it’s got nothing to do with the sex. Some of that is the real me, obviously, since I get off on it. That’s not the problem. The problem is not me, actually. It’s him.

He’s an ass**le.

And that sucks because the little dream bubble I wrapped around Vaughn Asher the Movie Star is being shattered right before my eyes. The reality of Vaughn Asher the Man is such a disappointment, my heart hurts.

I sit down on the bed, still naked, and allow myself to feel it for the first time.

My dream man is a huge letdown.

I let the silent tears fall and then wipe them away with the back of my hand.

But he was right about one thing, all we’ve done is fight since we met. In fact, the whole relationship is based on who’s in charge. Not anything personal. And all that stuff he talked about last night doesn’t even count, because I was asleep for most of it and that’s the only reason he said all that. He thought I was asleep.

No, the only thing I know about Asher is that his c**k is big, his sexual preferences are exotic, and he gets off making me do things I’d rather not.

I’m young. I’m on the verge of a promising career doing something I actually enjoy. I’m pretty enough, even in my own eyes, to know I deserve more than this. I deserve more than to be a man’s casual plaything. I deserve more than to be a man’s second thought. I deserve the dream. The fairy tale. I’m worth it.

A breath comes out and with it, heartache. Because as much as I hate to admit it, I’m so f**king sad that he’s a dick. I kneel down to my bag and rummage through it to find my last pair of clean shorts and tank top and then dress quickly. I drag a brush through my hair and I’m just about to flop down on the bed when there’s a knock at the door.

My stomach and heart both twist up with that small noise.

Vaughn? It must be him. Do I want to answer it?

I roll my eyes and sigh. As if there was ever any question.

I get up just as the second knock comes, and straighten my tank top. I have no bra on, and my girls are perky, but this morning he f**ked me in the woods, so whatever. I walk over to the door slowly to make him wait, and then twist the handle and pull it open.

It’s a woman.

No, I take that back. It’s a girl. College-age maybe, and she’s dressed up in a tan skirt suit with a ruffly white blouse peeking through her cropped blazer.

OK, what the hell is this? “Can I help you?” I ask in my most annoyed voice.

She smiles stiffly at me, like she’s some kind of uptight librarian. Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun like a ballerina might wear, her jewelry is large and gaudy like a grandma might wear, and her suit skirt is too short. A micro mini. “Ma’am,” she says, “Mr. Asher asked me to drop off your paperwork. He’d like me to notarize it and then bring it back to him immediately.”

I almost choke. “Excuse me?”

She pushes her glasses up her nose and tilts her head up. “I’m not privy to the details, ma’am, but he said the two of you had agreed to a contract.” She pulls a tablet out of her messenger bag and starts tapping on the screen with a stylus.