Chapter Seven
Sutton
Knotted wood and worn-smooth leather. This place is my sanctuary.
The shiny fake satin of her mini skirt looks out of place. Her heels wobble in the thick pile of the carpet. Part of me expects her to sit on the couch, as if I’m going to interview her before f*****g her silly. Or maybe she’ll drape herself across the kitchen countertops—a s****l offering. She does neither. Instead she crosses to the metal sculpture mounted across the back wall. A wild horse gallops, its hooves flying, its mane proud in the wind. She runs her hand along the curve of its breast. “It’s beautiful.”
Christ. Horses. With her lithe body and world-weary eyes, she looks all grown up. Then she gets excited about horses, and she could be twelve years old again. It’s a strange dichotomy, one I
