BPOV
When I wake up spared of nightmares, lying in Masen's bed, I slip into my dirty walk-of-shame clothes from the night before. I've never been so happy to wear a uniform to work and want to abandon my own clothes on the bottom of my locker. My day started out great, a hot guy next to me — naked, and some great sex to think about all day. Still, the fact that I get butterflies whenever I see Masen worries me. It makes me feel longing and it's foreign to me. It's fucking scary.
I find some undies in a hotel guest's fresh laundry and steal them. No one's going to miss a pair of plain, pink underwear.
I plan my day wisely, determined to do Masen's floor first and spoil him a little. By the time I get to his room, it's only eight, and I don't bother knocking. Instead, I let myself in and stuff the keycard in my pocket. He's still sleeping soundly, sheet bunched up around his waist, the outline of his thick cock making me want to rip my clothes off and feel him inside me — again, but I resist, giving him the rest he and my sore pussy clearly need.
Trying to be quiet makes you fucking loud, and I tiptoe my way across the room, into the bathroom to take Masen's used towels, put a fresh toilet roll next to the sink and give him more soaps and shampoos even though he clearly isn't using the hotel ones.
I fold more towels than I'm allowed and scribble some words on a piece of paper, leaving the pile of fresh laundry on the floor by the door.
The room smells like sex and cigarettes, like us and I love it. I look at Masen as I stand there, biting my lip as my heart quivers at the thought of him, us, this bed, his body.
I made a mess out of his stuff last night, rummaging around in the canvas bag that's sitting in the chair under the table, the bag with the box of Magnum condoms inside. His large duffel is almost falling off the chair, hanging on by a thread. As I try and put the bag bag onto the generic hotel room furniture, it drops to the ground and I curse silently. My head whips to the side, but luckily Masen's still asleep. Dropping down to my knees, I grab the bag and gasp at the contents.
A knife.
Thick manila folder, my name scribbled on the front.
Isabella Marie Swan
22
Harlem, NYC
Lives alone
Paid for in full.
Emails attached.
My hands shake as I thumb through the pages, finding the things I wrote on the board, the message I wrote to EAM's private message box, the email he responded with. I'm dumbfounded, my heart beating so fast I see black spots and almost pass out right then and there.
It's him.
It's Masen.
Masen is EAM.
I can't believe it. I feel so stupid.
I'm a stupid fucking bitch, easily distracted by pretty men while I have a fucking target on my back. I can't believe I suspected Paul instead of Masen. I've known Paul for years, and all he ever wants to do is sell my drugs and fuck. I don't think he's even capable of thinking that hard, of constructing a plan — a lie like this. I want to tear my fucking hair out.
But what does it stand for?
Why do I feel this way, feel this kind of regret?
Instead of running out and crawling somewhere to hide, I try to collect myself and my thoughts. I need to be cool right now, I need to focus. With Masen literally inches away from me, I grab his pants that he threw haphazardly onto the ground. His belt buckle is heavy as fuck, gunmetal and shiny. It's designer, Hermès. Expensive. I follow the chain hooked onto one of his belt loops until I grab his wallet. There it is, behind a hundred dollar bill: Masen's handsome as fucking sin grin on a Florida driver's license.
Edward Anthony Masen
1 Collins Ave Apt 604
Miami Beach, Florida 33139
DOB 06-19-1993 6ft1
I wish I could take it back.