Shaking my head, I quickly wash and watch with some kind of sick fascination as the remnants of my release wash down the drain.
That was...fuck.
I’ve never made myself come that hard. A release like that should have left me relaxed, but instead left me frustrated and confused.
Of all the women in the world, why in the hell am I thinking about her while I get myself off?
Princess fucking Presley.
With a growl, I turn off the water and get out of the shower.
Presley is fucking beautiful. I’d be a liar if I tried to deny it, but never once have I thought about her when she wasn’t around. In fact, I actively try not to think about her, and it pisses me off that she somehow slipped into my thoughts when I least expected it.
My phone rings with the tone I set for Jake and all thoughts of Presley flee my mind. I didn’t expect him to get back to me so soon. Cursing under my breath, I wrap a towel around my waist and sprint toward the kitchen where I left it.
“Hey, Jake. Got something for me?”
“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” he says with a clear grin in his voice. He laughs, knowing I’m not going to respond. “Congrats man, you’ve got a half-brother and I’ve got a name for you. I’ve also got a lead on another possible sibling, but it’s a trickier situation and I’m having trouble finding the info I need.”
“Give me what you’ve got. Something is better than nothing.”
“Noah Anthony Vaughn. Born in Blackwood, North Carolina on the twenty-first of October, nineteen eighty-nine, to Elizabeth Vaughn and Luis—”
“I know him.”
I don’t even apologize for cutting him off. I can’t think past the fact that I have a brother and...Noah. Noah’s my fucking brother.
He chuckles. “Small world. You know him though...that’s a good thing. Right?”
“It’s not bad. It’s just...fuck. I don’t even know, man. I gotta wrap my head around this.” I cover my mouth, scrubbing my hand across my jaw.
“Understandable. How about I forward what I've got to you and if you need anything else you can let me know? And I’ll keep searching.”
“Yeah,” I say distractedly, mind still reeling from his revelation. “Yeah, that’s good. Thank you, Jake. For everything.”
“You got it, man. Talk soon.”
I set my phone down and lean back on my hands against the counter. The phone chimes with an email, but I ignore it for now.
A chuckle tumbles from my lips. I can’t believe this shit.
Noah Vaughn is my brother.
Now the question remains...
What the hell am I going to do with this information?
NINE
Presley
“I give up, Luna,” I huff, dropping my e-reader beside me on the couch. “It’s a sad day when I can’t even lose myself in a good book! I’ve read the same line at least ten times because my mind keeps drifting to all the things I’ve been trying not to think about.”
Luna blinks.
“I know.” I sigh, reaching over to stroke her soft, white fur. “I’m failing. Spectacularly.”
Picking up my phone, I swipe the screen to unlock it and open the photo gallery. I mindlessly scroll through the pictures from my boudoir session. First, the edited photos. Then, the ones that weren’t.
Luna walks up my body and nudges my chin with her head. I nuzzle into her, easily accepting her quiet comfort.
“I need to make some decisions, don’t I?” I ask her quietly.
She meows in response, making me smile.
Adopting Luna was one of the best decisions I ever made.
Maybe I have it in me to make a few more.
“What do you think? Should I start an account? Put these pictures out there for the world to see?
Her dual-colored eyes meet mine. One green. One blue. Utterly different, and absolutely beautiful.
I adopted Luna from the local shelter a few months ago. Even though I moved into a smaller apartment after Camille moved out, I found myself constantly lonely. I went to the shelter looking for a companion and as soon as I laid eyes on Luna, I knew she was the one.
No one else wanted her because she was too different.
I was drawn by her jewel-colored eyes.
Surrounded by countless cats and kittens in need of a home, she stood out.
She stood apart from the rest in a way I only wish I could.
“Maybe if there were something unique about me,” I mutter.
The quiet rumble of Luna’s purring is the only response I get.
I love my sisters, but sometimes being triplets sucks. How can I stand out when there are two other identical versions of me walking around town? I’ve kept my hair colored but it doesn’t feel like it’s enough to set me apart from them.
I continue flipping through the images, remembering how intense the experience was for me. I’ve never felt so...in my element before. Once I let myself relax, it felt natural, freeing. I’ve never felt anything like it, and I want more of that feeling.
Closing the gallery, I open a search on the Internet. Ways to cover or remove scars.
Because if I’m going to do this—and let’s be honest, deep down, I really, really want to do this—I need to do something about my scars. If I’m going to post pictures, if I’m going to actually try to become some type of model, I don’t want my scars to be seen. If I’m going to take this chance, I don’t want to do it anonymously. I want my name out there beside my face. I want people to know who I am.
Isn’t that the whole point of this? To be seen?
I scroll through the search results, nothing looking very promising.
Make-up to cover scars. Too temporary.
Creams, ointments and gels to reduce scarring. A little late for that.
Surgery. The words skin grafts, excision, dermabrasion, and laser surgery make me cringe.
Injections. Not really wanting my body pumped with steroids.
Anything medical is basically out of the question. It’s expensive and would raise way too many questions. There’s no way I could have any type of surgery without my family knowing. They can never know about my scars. My secret, my shame. No, surgery isn’t an option.
I change up my search to something more specific. How to permanently cover self-harm scars.
My eyes lock on a single result. Tattoo studio offers free services to cover self-harm scars.
Tapping the screen, I read about a tattoo artist who replaces scars with beautiful works of art. I work through the article and watch the video accompanying the story. Tears spring to life when I see the countless people he’s helped. I listen as they tell their stories, sharing their struggles with self-harm, showing the before and after pictures of the work the artist has done for them.
It’s impossible to push back my emotions. Some of their stories are strikingly similar to my own.
Image after image flash on the screen of my phone.
A lump forms in my throat.