Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
“Here’s an idea…” I turned back to look at her. “Read them a goodbye note. Then turn your phone in to your therapist and actually try getting some help. Because I think you need it.”
***
Hours later, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark. I wasn’t happy with Morgan, but I’d managed to stop seething over what she’d done. Though not because I was any less mad. It was more that my focus had shifted. To Brock. To the photos that were only a few swipes away. To his dirty texts. To the remote vibrator app. That last one had been the center of my attention for the last hour, and I couldn’t help myself… I finally gave in and slipped the phone out from under my pillow.
On the third screen in, I was pretty certain I’d found it.
BuzzBuddy.
The name might’ve been funny if I were in the right mood. But I’d had a bug up my ass ever since Morgan had spilled about all the crap on Brock’s phone.
I stared down at the dumb app icon—a pink vibrator with a lipstick kiss on the side—anxious to click in. Though even that felt like an invasion of Brock’s privacy, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I went to Google and typed in BuzzBuddy.
BuzzBuddy—control your woman’s pleasure, even when you can’t be with her.
Beneath was an article that explained how the app worked. Essentially, it connected to an insertable vibrator that could be controlled remotely. The end user could do things like increase the vibrations and add G-spot stimulation. There was also add-on hardware available, things like a clitoris massager and a prostate gland stroker. Jeez. The thing supposedly even had the ability to determine when a woman had an orgasm. I continued to scan the article, half reading and half not, until a certain sentence caught my attention.
The BuzzBuddy also records session history, including dates, times, and length of playtime.
That got me thinking…
Maybe I can just take a quick peek.
It wouldn’t be like I was reading his personal thoughts and messages.
It would only be some facts—dates and times.
Who knew? Maybe Brock hadn’t even used the thing.
I gnawed on my lip as I closed out of Google and swiped back to the app.
Let’s face it, I was never going to sleep without checking it out now.
And I was at a mental-health facility, for God’s sake. I had to do what was best for my mental health, right? Sleep was too important.
I rolled my eyes at myself and groaned, yet I clicked into the stupid app anyway.
My heart raced as I poked around. It wasn’t easy to navigate, but eventually I found an option called Session History. Clicking in, my eyes grew wide.
“Holy crap.”
There were pages and pages of sessions. Seeing them all in black and white made me a little nauseous. But one entry in particular stopped me in my tracks. Because it had been recorded two nights ago—while I was sleeping in bed right next to Brock.
“Unreal. Un-freaking-real.” I whipped the covers off and got out of bed. Not only did I not want to see anything else in this phone, I wanted the thing out of my possession immediately. So I dressed as fast as I could, tucked the phone into my back pocket, and locked the door to my room. I was just about to climb out the window—without even knowing if the damn ladder was outside—when something dawned on me.
A man who has virtual sex with one woman while another is lying in his bed doesn’t have respect for anyone. So why was I being so respectful and not looking through the rest of his phone? The answer: I wasn’t anymore.
Without further debate, I went right to his photos. The first picture I called up was of a weird tattoo—I wasn’t certain, but I thought it might be a squirrel running down a thigh. A very thick thigh… Was that Brock? I swiped again. And the next photo made my jaw drop…
***
“Hi. Is Brock working tonight?”
The bartender shook his head. “Sorry, it’s his night off.”
“Oh.”
“Can I get you something to drink anyway?”
If I wasn’t going to be able to give Brock a piece of my mind, I definitely could use a drink. “I’ll have a dry martini, shaken not—” Remembering what Brock had said about my prissy drink, I stopped and shook my head. “You know what? I’ll just have a vodka and cranberry, please.”
He knocked on the bar twice. “Coming right up.”
A young man slid onto the stool next to me. He flashed a dimpled, crooked smile.
“Hey there. I think you owe me a drink?”
I smiled, even through my anger. “And why would I owe you a drink?”
His smile widened. “Because I dropped mine when you walked in. You’re so damn beautiful.”