House Rules
Actually, the real worst was that one time.
Gabbie had texted you from her room.
*emergency come here now.*
The kind of message that makes you drop everything, which you did, which you immediately regretted.
She needed her nails done. Right now. She had a modeling gig in an hour and had just noticed the state of her manicure and the polish needed at least forty minutes to dry properly which meant it had to happen immediately, no discussion.
The fact that a big guy was right behind her railing her into the mattress was, in her view, a logistical detail rather than a reason to wait.
"Can you stop for like two minutes?" she asked the guy, with the tone of someone asking a colleague to pause a meeting.
He did not stop. He did, in fact, do the opposite of stopping.
So there you were. Perched on the edge of her bed, nail polish in hand, carefully holding Gabbie's fingers steady while she shifted and gasped and occasionally grabbed your hand harder than intended.
"Sorry, sorry," she kept saying to you, breathless, squeezing your hand. "Almost done. You're doing so good."
You were not doing so good.
At some point it occurred to you that you were basically holding Gabbie's hand while she was being fucked by someone whose size made you feel, by comparison, like a footnote.
You finished the nails. They looked great.
Nobody at the gig cared about the nails.