Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 113880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Which is a shame because unlike many of the ex-girlfriends of the men downstairs, I seem to be able to handle ten inches with no problem!
12
ALLIE
I wake early, as the ocean that lulled me to sleep at night drags me from my dreams. The view that greets me when I open the blinds beats the usual city landscape I’m faced with back home. The cerulean ocean, stretching as far as the eye can see, somehow settles the daily butterflies I tend to wake up with. Butterflies telling me I’m not happy and settled. Butterflies telling me I need to do something, move on, fly away.
It’s good to feel a little calm. Good and strange. Maybe I have a thing for the ocean. Or maybe getting away from my office and colleagues and the frenetic city pace agrees with me. Or could it be that the orgasm has left me with a warm glow?
Who knows?
My computer rests unopened on my desk and my phone is set to silent on my nightstand. I’m disconnected from everything that’s familiar and plunged into this whole surreal new reality. Last night, I didn’t have an opportunity to listen through the recordings from yesterday and transcribe. I should be doing more writing, but the interview process is keeping me engaged.
Thoughts of work are confining and the view calls to me, so I throw on a clean teal two-piece, stuff my computer into a bag with a towel, grab my phone, and make my way downstairs. The kitchen is silent and pretty tidy. Only a few bottles have been left on the counter, evidence the men stayed up drinking together.
The bromance continues.
In the fridge, I search out the ready-made iced coffee and pour myself a glass. There are individually wrapped chocolate croissants in the pantry which look delicious. Prepared with my to-go breakfast, I head past the pool, down the stairs and to the beach.
It’s so early and the place is deserted save for a few white birds which swoop from the cloud dotted blue sky toward the frothy ocean water as though they’re hunting for something I can’t see. I rest my coffee on the sand, shake out my towel and settle myself for a quick breakfast and to catch up on work. My phone acts as a hotspot so I can check my emails. There aren’t too many which is a relief. Being out of the office is a recipe for disaster when it comes to administrative organization. I ignore everything because nothing seems urgent, and my mind is too taken up by the confessions of the ten men who are currently sleeping.
I find the audio from last night and set it to play, not too loudly in case someone comes, and I don’t notice. Giant cock conversations aren’t exactly for public consumption.
My typing speed is fast enough for me to keep up with the audio, and I find myself smiling at the funnier revelations even though I’m listening to them a second time around. When it gets to the end, I hear myself saying it’s time to hit the sack and then the sound of the faucet as I pour a glass of water.
Then we all say goodnight on the recording, and I suddenly realize that I never switched off the recording app. It kept recording as the men were talking and I was upstairs.
I press the stop button on the replay and bite my lip. What comes next in this audio is a conversation not meant for my ears. A conversation between ten men.
I shouldn’t listen to it.
I should edit the file to delete the last section of audio and maintain their privacy. I wouldn’t like it if someone intercepted my private conversation.
A bird swoops close to me, probably eying the remaining part of the croissant that I was saving. I pop it in my mouth to remove the temptation and chew, mulling over my options.
I’m not an intrusive person usually. I value my privacy and respect others' privacy, too. I’d never go through a boyfriend’s phone, for example. But these men are here to provide me with revelations, and there’s a nugget of intrigue burning inside me right now.
There might be something on the recording that I could use to make this article extra special. At worst, I could find out if they’re telling me the truth and being open. It can’t be easy to answer my questions when I’m sitting in front of them, listening and judging. Maybe when I’m not in the room, and bro-code is in full force, they’re happier to talk.
This is my one chance to find out.
My journalistic instinct is a demanding thing.
I press the button, deciding I can always stop if I feel icky about what I’m hearing.
But as the seconds tick past, and I hear what they were saying about me after I left the room, I can’t stop listening.