DARING AND DANGEROUS

RORY - IN OKLAHOMA The music was too loud, the air too thick, and Rory didn’t give a single f**k. She was in a small town bar in Oklahoma, wearing a black mini that barely covered her ass and boots that could kill a man. Blair was somewhere behind her, lost in the sea of cowboy hats and beer-soaked boots, yelling something about tequila and terrible decisions. Rory just kept moving. Enjoying her last night in OK before her and Blair moved to the big apple tomorrow. She didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to remember. She just wanted to feel something that didn’t come with scars. Her hips rolled to the beat, red curls stuck to her neck, sweat dripping down her spine. Her drink was gone, vodka and rage, but her body was still buzzing. That’s when she saw him. Leaning against the bar. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. That kind of lazy confidence that said he knew exactly how good he looked. He wasn’t watching the crowd. He was watching her. Rory didn’t hesitate. She walked straight up to him like she wasn’t wearing regret in her bones. “You look like trouble,” she said, leaning in close. He smirked. “And you look like you need some.” She didn’t ask his name. Didn’t care. She grabbed his hand and headed out the door. The humid air sticking to her skin. They made it in-between the vehicles, then his mouth was on hers. Hands in her hair. Teeth dragging her bottom lip. Tongue tasting every lie she told herself about being okay. Her back hit the brick wall. Her skirt was up in seconds. He hissed when he found her bare. “f**k, you’re soaked.” “You gonna waste time talking or—” He dropped to his knees like she was something holy, and he was starving. Rory moaned, loud and shameless, as his tongue found her c**t. Her hand slammed against the wall. Her other gripped his hair like it was the only thing holding her together. He didn’t take his time. He devoured her. Fingers inside her, tongue circling her c**t in tight, relentless strokes like he knew she didn’t want slow,she wanted ruined. She came hard, too fast, her back arching off the wall as her moan echoed down the alley like a goddamn sin. He stood, chest heaving, eyes blown wide. “You’re f*****g dangerous,” he growled. “And you’re still talking.” He smirked as he pushed away from her and she watched him pull a condom out, sliding it onto his c**k, and then he slid into her. She bit his shoulder, sucking on his neck, leaving a love bite for tomorrow. He groaned like she’d just made his whole night. Pulling out and slamming back into her. Rory gasped, her head thudding against the brick. He didn’t ask if she could take it. He could feel that she already was. His hand gripped her thigh, lifting her leg higher as he pounded into her, rough and raw, the kind of f**k that didn’t ask questions or make promises. Just heat. Just pressure. Just the relief of not feeling anything else. “f**k, you’re tight, s**t—you’re gonna make me—” “Then f*****g do it,” she whispered, her teeth grazing his neck. He groaned deep in his chest, thrusts turning messy, erratic. His grip on her thigh bruising now. When he came, it was rough. Guttural. His hips slammed into hers as he buried himself deep, shuddering against her like she’d ripped the control right out of him. Rory moaned again, soaking in the chaos of it. The filth. The nothingness of it. They stayed like that for a beat, both catching their breath. Then she pushed him back, pulled her skirt down, and fixed her lipstick in the reflection of a dirty truck window like he hadn’t just wrecked her in six minutes flat. He was still panting. She was already walking away. No name. No number. No apology. Just the echo of boots on the pavement and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Two Weeks Later - New York RORY I woke up to the sound of my bedroom door creaking open. Not the cute, haunted-house type creak. No. The he’s-back-to-ruin-my-life-again kind. My body froze as that all-too-familiar cocktail of stale cigarettes and bottom-shelf liquor hit my nose. And then? That laugh. That sick, twisted chuckle that meant one thing: He found me. The man I ran from. The man who turned my childhood into a horror movie with no ending credits. I laid there, trying to control my breathing—like if I stayed still enough, I could become invisible. “Oh Rory,” he whispered. Nope. Hard pass. “Still pretending to sleep, huh? Just like when you were little?” I could practically feel his breath against my cheek. “I told you I’d find you again. You know you can’t hide from me, kiddo.” That cold, spine-tingling dread crawled up my back like it always did. But I wasn’t the same terrified little girl anymore. Not entirely, anyway. He was standing on the left side of my bed. One step closer... That’s all I needed. I’d bolt to the right. Out the door. Gone. I took one last shaky breath, a single tear slipping down to my ear, and then— Floorboard creak. GO. I exploded from the covers, sprinting for the door— But I was too late. His hand yanked me back by my hair, the pain sparking across my scalp like fire. I screamed—loud. Not that it ever saved me before... WHAM. I hit the floor hard. Every inch of me ached as I sat up, clutching the back of my head, heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. Just a nightmare. Just a nightmare. Except it wasn’t. Not really. More like a rerun of trauma I couldn’t cancel. I was safe now. Thousands of miles away in my overpriced New York apartment with soundproof walls (bless), locked doors (triple-checked), and Blair just a few doors down. I checked my phone. 2:47 A.M. Ugh. Awesome. My mouth felt like I’d been screaming in my sleep again—dry as hell. I dragged myself to the kitchen for water, making sure every single lock and latch was still sealed shut along the way. I’d checked them before bed, but hey—trauma says check again, babe. I gulped the ice water like it could wash away my demons. It didn’t, but it helped. At least tomorrow Blair and I were going shopping. Nothing like a soul-crushing day at IKEA to keep your brain too busy to spiral. Looking around my brand-new, echoey, half-decorated apartment, I sighed. I needed everything. Dishes. Decor. A life, maybe? God help me, Blair was going to drag me all over New York tomorrow. But I forgot my sleep meds tonight—that was the real reason my mind decided to play Saw: Rory Edition. And yeah, tomorrow was going to suck... because Monday? I start my new job. Marketing Assistant at Vaughn Tech Industries. Which sounds super impressive, and it is, but what really sold me? Jacob Vaughn. My new boss. The less-intense Vaughn brother. Cute. Smiley. GQ with a heart. Then there’s Jace Vaughn... CEO. Sexy. Intimidating. Danger in a custom-tailored suit. From the photos alone, I could already tell: That man’s got issues… and I’d like to be one of them. Blair had been making jokes all week about seducing one or both of them. Me? I don’t do attachments. I do orgasms and eye contact if I’m feeling generous. Relationships? Hard pass, sweetie. I’ve got trauma. I honestly still can’t believe Blair convinced me to move here. After two years of begging post-college, I finally said yes when my therapist moved to New York. If that wasn’t a sign from the universe, I don’t know what is. hat woman—Jackie—she saved me. Her, Blair, and the detective on my case—they’re the only ones who know the full story. And I plan to keep it that way. Six years ago, on my 21st birthday, I got a phone call that changed everything. A lawyer. A life insurance policy. Three million dollars. Thanks, Mom. Even from the grave, you were trying to set me free. She made sure I couldn’t touch the money until I was 21. Smart woman. I used it to pay for college, therapy, and a whole new identity. I didn’t need to work. But I needed a purpose—otherwise I’d go fully off the rails. So here I am. Trying to build a new life. Trying to forget the one I left behind. Trying to sleep without screaming. I dumped the rest of my water and headed back to bed, ignoring the urge to check all the locks again. Twelve floors up. Nobody’s getting in here. “Jesus, Rory,” I muttered. “You gotta work on that.” I crawled into bed, my phone resting on a moving box that doubled as a nightstand, and sighed. 9 A.M. was going to come faster than a frat boy on prom night.