Chapter Eight
The hours between 42 North St. and Monday in the office went by in a daze. I don’t think I ever woke to reality as I took my long hot shower and washed my hair. I flashed back frequently to the scenes in the house, especially the last with Preston. I tried to remember his every word, understand my faults and his attitude, and then recapture the embarrassing body rush that made that exchange so weirdly s****l. My humiliation taunted me, as repulsive as it was. It tapped a need in me I would have never known was there without it having been so clearly pointed out. I remembered Ryder’s cruel words, and Preston’s, and thrived on them both. Hate had turned to love, had turned to obsession—a mania I couldn’t chase from my mind.
I finally drank a glass of wine to calm my thoughts
