I text Patrick.
Imogen: See you soon.
I add a photo of my legs stretched over the passenger seat. It's not the most graceful image, sure, but there's something about snapping a shot for him.
It's really fucking hot.
ChapterNine
IMOGEN
Patrick lives just off the happening Abbot-Kinney street, in a new apartment building. He's right on the edge of the bungalow section of Venice Beach (streets and streets of "beach shacks" worth seven figures).
How does he afford his place? He doesn't seem like the kind of guy who comes from money. But then I don't seem like someone who lives on the beach in Newport.
At least, I hope I don't reek of the entitlement people associate with Orange County girls. Not that the stereotypes are fair. I guess that's the through-line, really.
I shouldn't make assumptions about Patrick because he's a tattoo artist who wears jeans. Maybe he pays his mortgage with his trust fund. Maybe he rakes in the dough at work. Maybe he has a side-hustle as an erotica author.
Anything is possible.
His jacket was real leather. I think.
No. No more thinking. I'm here for satisfaction, period, the end.
After I turn off my car, I check my makeup, my dress, my purse. I look cute. No, I look hot. I feel hot. I am hot and I'm ready for this.
Okay, I'm not completely ready. And the stress from dinner is putting a crimp in my sex drive. But, hey, I'm shaking it off.
I read his reply to my text.
Patrick: I hope you're not wearing anything under that.
My cheeks flush. My chest too. My thoughts drift a little further away. And this is just a text. Once I'm actually there, in his space—
It's scary. Not because he's a near stranger I shouldn't trust. Because there's a certain intimacy to being in his space, seeing his life, waking up in his bed.
That's terrifying.
I take another deep breath; I lock my car, and I make my way to his apartment.
He's on the second floor, in the corner, past a gated door and a gorgeous succulent garden.
Seriously, how does he afford this place?
No. That's none of my business. I'm not here to discuss his financial future. I'm here to enjoy his body.
I take a deep breath and I knock.
"It's open," he answers.
It is. I step inside. "Is that safe?"
"Are the hipsters going to jump me?"
"Depends."
"On?"