As Galloway lowers himself on the bed, the piece of furniture creaks.
In his hand, a magazine. The pages were poorly glued together. The title, scrawled on the cover in looping letters.
This is one of the many underground, dirty books he managed to swipe off his exes. He has quite a collection.
His collection would be bigger, though, had his second wife not been such a bitch.
The magazine – more a pile of loosely connected papers – falls to the floorboards. Rusty has memories better than this second hand porn. He squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing himself.
Rusty sucks in a breath at the memory. He really shouldn’t have done that, fucked Phelps. The guy was drunk off his ass.
Rusty sucks on his fingers. Pulling the digits out, he looks them over. Nicely coated with spit, slick. They slide in so easy.
Rusty’s chest aches.
Galloway swallowed thickly.
Rusty’s heart sinks. It finally hit him. “Fuck! The asshole knew,” he groans.
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