Reveal (A Wild Nights Novel)

by K. M. Golland

  I ran into the room, rummaged through my clutch, and pulled out my phone, swiping the screen and unlocking it to see the number twelve next to the envelope icon.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” I said, quickly tapping on it and opening my messages only to find that three were from Brad and the other nine from H.

  I ignored H’s—for now—and clicked on the first one from Brad.

  Brad: We’re just at a local bar playing pool.

  Josh is fine.

  Where are you?

  I can’t get you off my mind.

  I can still taste you.

  Lust shot right to my core, taunting me because it was all I could feel in that moment, and not him. I wanted to feel him.

  Shaking my head, I clicked on his second message.

  Brad: Why aren’t you answering?

  Is everything okay?

  I’m fucking worried, pixie.

  Message me back.

  Shit! I clicked on his last message.

  Brad: What am I going to do with you, huh?

  Called Johnno because I was going out of my mind.

  He said you were both safe in your room.

  Now I can breathe.

  Sleep well, gorgeous. xo

  Can’t wait to have you in my arms again.

  Wow! Talk about swooning. I gushed in my underwear. I could feel the stretch of my cheeks as I smiled. He was just so sweet, and hot, and … freakin’ sweet.

  Wanting to let him know that I’d received his messages and that I was in bed and thinking about him, I quickly changed into my jim-jams and climbed under my blankets. My finger hovered over H’s messages, but I just couldn’t open them. The picture he’d sent me earlier in the evening had hurt more than I wanted to admit—more than I was willing to admit—so I tapped on Brad’s name instead and hit reply.

  Em: Hey. Sorry.

  My phone was on silent.

  Are you still out?

  I waited a couple of minutes, but he didn’t answer, so I typed him another message.

  Em: Should I be worried now?

  And just so you know,

  if I had Dimps or Noah’s numbers,

  I’d call them to make sure you were okay.

  He didn’t answer again, so I snuggled down and closed my phone, stretching to put it on the bedside table. My hand remained on the case, unable to let it go, and it pissed me off that H had so much control over me. Damn it, H. Fuck you. Bringing it back in front of me, I swiped it open, tapped his smiley face and preparing myself for another blow.

  Mr Happy: I’m sorry.

  I shouldn’t have sent you that.

  Mr Happy: Fuck, love.

  I mean it. I’m really sorry.

  I don’t know what came over me.

  Mr Happy: I’m a cunt. But so are you.

  Mr Happy: Fuck! I didn’t mean that either.

  You just piss me off sometimes.

  You want me in your life and yet you don’t.

  Mr Happy: Please don’t ignore me, love.

  I need you. And you need me.

  You know this.

  Mr Happy: I didn’t fuck her,

  just so you know.

  Mr Happy: Okay I did.

  But I thought of you the entire time.

  Mr Happy: You break me, Em.

  Piece by fucking piece.

  And you don’t care.

  You don’t give a shit.

  Mr Happy: I need to know that you care.

  Please just tell me that you care.

  I read those final words through salted sorrow drowning my eyes. Of course I cared. How could I not? We were both each other’s blades, cutting deep and causing pain—two wrongs that seldom made a right, yet somehow healed each other despite the cuts we inflicted.

  We were wrong … and we were right.

  Wrenching my blankets off, I rushed to the bathroom and cried, trying to silence my tears by sucking in deep breaths as I stared at myself in the mirror. Em, calm down. Em, breathe.

  My attempts for hush failed, so I removed my PJs, turned on the shower and stood under the hot spray of water, hoping it would do the trick.

  It didn’t, at least not at first, my tears running thicker and faster. How can two people who uplift each other so easily tear one another down? I didn’t get it. All I knew was that my reluctance to go any further with H was hurting him, that keeping him in my life was hurting him, yet the alternative of letting him go just wasn’t an option. I was too scared of how that would feel. I needed him. He’d been my unorthodox rock for the past one and a half years.

  The type of relationship we had couldn’t continue, though. It wasn’t fair to H, and if Brad and I were going to explore where the two of us led, it definitely wouldn’t be fair to him either. That would be crossing yet another line, and it wasn’t one I was willing to cross. Fuck. What am I going to do?

  I slid down the tiled wall of the shower until my arse met the floor and my arms encased my legs, holding them tight against my chest. You have to stop sexting H, Em. You know this.

  I did know it. It was inevitable and no doubt near impossible. And not only because we both enjoyed it, fed off it, and were good at it, but because we were so accustomed to doing it, having done so for eighteen months. But it could be done. It would be done. I just had to draw upon my willpower and refrain from succumbing to the temptation that was my Mr Happy. I can do this. I can totally do better than Eve. Fuck the apple. H was no ordinary apple, though. He was more a toffee apple: still good for you, but coated in sin.

  Knowing what it was that I had to do, I stopped crying, stood up, got out of the shower, and dried myself, then got ready for bed. When I climbed under the covers, I reached for my phone and was about to type a message to H when I noticed one from Brad.

  Brad: Sexy and sweet. Aren’t I lucky?

  We just got back.

  Heading to bed. Wish I was heading to yours.

  I looked at the time and, seeing that only ten minutes had passed and quickly typed him a response in the hope he was still awake.

  Em: I wish you were, too.

  I could teach you a few things in my bed,

  ya know?

  He messaged me back straight away.

  Brad: You’re awake. Good.

  And now I want to know what things you’d teach me.

  I smiled.

  Em: Firstly, I’d teach you how to read my body.

  Brad: I like reading.

  Em: Good,

  because my prose is quite erotic.

  Brad: What’s prose?

  It sounds great though.

  I laughed.

  Em: It’s the language my body speaks.

  Brad: Gotcha.

  So your body talks dirty, huh?

  Em: Very dirty.

  Brad: When’s my first lesson?

  Em: My classroom is open tomorrow.

  Brad: Looking forward to it.

  Em: I hope you’re a good student.

  I reward good students.

  Brad: I’m the teacher’s pet.

  Em: Good boy.

  Now go to sleep.

  I want you well rested.

  Brad: Yes, ma’am.

  Em: You just earned your first gold star.

  Brad: First of many.

  Em: I have no doubt.

  Goodnight, Surfer xo

  Brad: Sweet dreams, sexy pixie. xo

  I exited his message thread wearing a smile on my face. Things with Brad felt good. Feeling Brad felt good. The apprehensive simmering in the pit of my stomach that I often experienced when texting H just wasn’t there with Brad. That was nice. A relief. But what was also nice was the level of excitement and sexual desire I had with him. It matched what I had with H, and no doubt would get even stronger with time.

  Now even more convinced that a sexting cease-fire between H and I was the right thing to do, I opened his message thread and sent my response to him.

  Em: I care, babe.

  Of course I do.


  But it’s not enough.

  I have what I want.

  I have what I need.

  They’re not one and the same,

  Instead, the sin of greed.

  I woke up early and went for a run along the beach with the intent to clear my mind from the disarray of the previous night. So much had happened in such a short space of time that I felt ready to burst with uncertainty. I’d taken many steps forward with Brad, but in turn had moonwalked way back with H, and I hated that.

  Prior to leaving the hotel, I’d noticed that H had replied to my message, but I hadn’t yet read it. I’d wanted to run to my turnaround point first, which was a park just shy of the Southport Surf Life Saving Club. It was there that the hustle and bustle of the city started to taper away. It was also the only quiet section along that particular stretch of beach.

  Stopping when I reached the park, I had a quick drink from the water tap before bending over to regulate my breathing, sucking in deep breaths and letting them out slowly until my pulse evened and the hurt in my chest subsided. According to the weather app on my phone, the temperature was already a balmy twenty-six degrees Celsius. The air was hot and humid, and not the best condition for running, so I took a seat in the sand under the shade of a Pandanus tree and overlooked the ocean before me, the waves subtle, the breeze barely blowing.

  The morning sun had not long climbed into the sky, its presence unmistakable due to the heat it already radiated. Dog owners walked their four-legged friends along the path or played fetch with a stick or ball at the water’s edge, and local council workers tidied the area of litter and various debris.

  I smiled. It reminded me of home, and why I was an early bird. Mornings were peaceful, routine, but very much a lively part of the day.

  Finally settled, I swiped open my phone, tapped on my messages and prepared myself for H’s response to the one I’d sent last night, where I told him I cared but that it wasn’t enough.

  Mr Happy: It’s not enough for what, love?

  Why do you always force me to spell everything out for you? Shaking my head with mild frustration, I did just that—spelled it out.

  Em: I care for you, but I won’t allow us to

  keep holding each other back.

  That’s what we’re doing. We need to stop.

  I pressed send and wrapped my arms around my knees while watching a small flock of seagulls fight for pecking order. Although unfair, because the biggest and strongest one with the loudest squawk always prevailed, their quarrel was over quickly, and each bird knew where they stood.

  Seagulls were idiotically smart.

  Men weren’t.

  My phone beeped. H was awake.

  Mr Happy: What are you sayin’, Em?

  Just spit it out.

  Fine. If spitting is what you want, spitting is what you’ll get.

  Em: The private sexting stops now.

  You wanna text me? Keep it clean.

  I want to keep you as a friend,

  and this is the only way I know how.

  Mr Happy: You’re just saying this

  because of the stripper you’re fucking.

  I sighed. I knew this wouldn’t be easy. I knew he’d put up a fight.

  Em: Yes, and no.

  Yes—because I’d like to see where this thing with BRAD goes.

  And, no—because what you and I are doing

  is pointless. It won’t lead to anything.

  Mr Happy: Pointless? Nice.

  I gritted my teeth and rolled my eyes.

  Em: Lose the precious act.

  You know what I mean.

  Mr Happy: It’s only pointless because

  you won’t allow it to be anything else.

  Em: For fuck’s sake.

  You know it can’t be anything else.

  We live on opposite sides of the country,

  and you’re a client.

  I will never date a client.

  EVER!

  Mr Happy: WAS a client.

  Em: Look, I don’t want to argue.

  What you did last night was disgusting,

  and I’m still trying to come to terms with it.

  So you either keep it clean with me,

  or you keep nothing at all.

  H didn’t respond right away, and I was just about to put my phone in my pocket when a message finely came through.

  Mr Happy: Fine.

  You want us clean,

  we’ll be clean.

  Em: Yes, that’s what I want.

  Mr Happy: Done.

  Em: Thank you xo

  Mr Happy:

  I had a feeling the smiley face he’d sent was aimed at mocking me. I wasn’t stupid. It was more a sarcastic retort than a show of happiness. Regardless, I wanted to let him know that I was doing what I was doing for us and not just because of my relationship with Brad.

  Em: One last thing.

  Mr Happy: ??

  Em: I care a fucking lot.

  More than a lot.

  That’s why I’m doing this.

  I don’t want to lose you.

  Mr Happy:

  There’s that smiley face again. Exhaling sadly, my shoulders slumped. He’d understand eventually. He had to.

  Mr Happy: One more thing, love.

  Mr Happy: Can I still call you love?

  Is that breaking a new rule?

  Smartarse!

  Em: No, it’s not.

  And yes, I suppose.

  Mr Happy: Good. Just checking.

  But one more thing,

  I really am sorry about the pic.

  It was low, even for me.

  Em: It’s forgiven.

  But not forgotten.

  Mr Happy: Fair enough.

  Okay, love, gotta get ready for work.

  Have a safe flight home.

  When do you leave? Today?

  Em: Tomorrow.

  Bye xo

  Mr Happy: Bye xo

  I closed my phone and leaned back on my hands. It was done. H and I were now strictly platonic.

  So why do I feel as if I’ve just been punched in the gut and had my heart torn in two?

  ***

  After doing a few quick warm-up stretches, I was about to head back to the hotel when I received a message from Brad.

  Brad: Morning, sexy.

  Fancy getting sweaty with me?

  Em: Would love to

  but I’m already sweaty.

  Brad: How so?

  Em: Working out.

  Brad: Seriously?

  Em: Yes.

  Brad: Already?

  What are you, part bird?

  Em: No. I don’t like worms, lol.

  I’m still out on my run.

  Brad: Whereabouts?

  I’m just about to leave.

  Em: Southport Surf Life Saving Club.

  Brad: Be there in five.

  Five? Whaaaa?

  Em: Oh, okay. See you soon.

  Five minutes was slightly ambitious, considering it had taken me twenty, but while waiting and keeping a lookout for Brad I continued to alternate between stretching and lightly jogging on the spot. Soon, I spotted him running along the beach toward me. Running fast. No wonder it had only taken him five minutes. See that, vagina? That’s all yours. Use it wisely.

  My eyes widened and I no doubt resembled an owl—a big, stunned, stupid-looking owl. There was no blinking. Just ogling. Gawking of the drooling kind, even. Brad’s body lifted and lowered effortlessly with each step that he took, as if in slow-motion. The material of his blue boardshorts lightly flapped with the breeze against his quadriceps, and the man-bun on top of his head loosely secured his hair.

  I tried to blink, but either I’d forgotten how or my eyelids had seized up, so I raised my hand and shielded my face from the rising sun, relishing how it shone a golden ray over his sweat-dampened skin, embellishing him like a mythical creature. Wow! He’s a man-bun unicorn.

  A noise escaped my throat, one I’d never heard befor
e. It was a new noise, an interesting noise, and unfamiliar with what was customary when discovering new things, I figured that perhaps giving the noise a name was a good start. Shroan. Yes! Because what I’d done was simultaneously moan and shriek at once.

  I tried doing it again and covered my mouth instantly, quickly looking around to see whether anyone had heard the donkey hee-haw I’d sounded instead. Apparently shroans couldn’t be forced or manifested. They were just as mythical as the creature that had incited them. Just as rare and precious.

  Continuing to gawk as Brad ran toward me—because hells yes—I paid extra attention to the way his pectorals mimicked the bounce of his body but how his abs remained as tight as a nun’s arsehole. It truly was a beautiful sight. And coupled with the tranquil sounds of Enya that I swore I could hear as he galloped his unicorn-self toward me, I realised I was once again shroaning, except this time I was conducting my own symphony of shroans. I was shroaning all over the fucking place.

  Brad spotted me and smiled, slowing his pace as he made his way up from the water’s edge to where I was standing. “Morning,” he said, wrapping his arm around my back and pulling me to him for a kiss.