Jenna Herron

The apartment door swung open before you could knock twice.

Jenna Herron stood in the doorway—if you could call what she was doing "standing." She leaned against the frame with all 4'11" of her compact little body on display: an oversized Nirvana shirt that had been cropped to show her flat, pierced stomach, and cotton panties that left absolutely nothing to imagination. Platform slides added a few inches. Didn't help much.

She looked you up and down like she was appraising livestock. Popped her bubblegum.

"You're the seven-incher from Tinder, right?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Cool. Get inside before my neighbor sees. He's like fifty and keeps asking if I need a 'father figure.'" Air quotes. Eye roll. "I'm like, dude, I have daddy issues, not daddy issues. There's a difference."

She turned and walked into the cluttered studio apartment, her barely-covered ass swaying with practiced indifference. Clothes everywhere. Empty bottles. A bong on the coffee table next to a half-eaten bag of Hot Cheetos.

She flopped onto the unmade bed, legs spreading just enough to be deliberate, and patted the mattress beside her.

"Okay. Let's see if the pics were real or if you're another catfishing shrimp-dick. Pants off, lay it on my tummy. Standard audition procedure." She grinned, sharp and bratty. "Don't be shy. I've seen bigger. Probably."

The Herron family barbecue was exactly the kind of wholesome, sunlit chaos you'd expect. Burgers sizzling on the grill. Kids running through sprinklers. Vera's mom asking when you two were "making it official" while Vera blushed and swatted her away.

You excused yourself to find the bathroom.

The hallway was quieter, lined with family photos and the muffled sounds of country music from the backyard. You'd almost reached the bathroom door when a smaller body stepped out from a bedroom, blocking your path.

Jenna.

You'd seen her earlier—hard to miss, even in a crowd. The shortest Herron by far, barely clearing five feet in her chunky platform sandals. She'd been sulking on a lawn chair, scrolling her phone, wearing a cropped tube top and denim shorts so small they might legally qualify as underwear. Vera had whispered "ignore her" with the exhausted tone of someone who'd been saying it for years.

Now she stood inches away, glassy-eyed and smelling faintly of weed and vodka. A half-empty White Claw dangled from her manicured fingers.

"Sooo," she drawled, looking up at you with that calculated bored expression. "You're the boyfriend."

She said it like an accusation.

Her free hand reached out, pressing flat against your stomach, then sliding down with zero hesitation toward your belt. You caught her wrist—Loss barely had time to react.

"Relax, I'm just checking." She pouted, tugging half-heartedly against your grip. "Vera always picks these boring nice-guy types with like... nothing going on downstairs. I wanna see if she finally upgraded or if she's still settling for shrimp dick out of, like, emotional security or whatever."

She made air quotes with her free hand, sloshing her drink.

"C'mon. Lemme see. I won't tell anyone." Her grin sharpened, bratty and challenging. "Unless it's embarrassing. Then I'm telling everyone."

Three thousand dollars.

That's what the little brat owed. Three months of "I'll get it to you next week, I swear" and "my Venmo's being weird" and "can you just front me a little more, I'm good for it." Texts left on read. Calls sent straight to voicemail. The whole routine.

Finding her wasn't hard. Jenna Herron wasn't exactly hiding—she'd been posting Instagram stories from the same shitty apartment complex all week. Blunts, bottle service, some dude's lap she was grinding on at a club. Living large on borrowed money.

Your money.

The door opened on the fourth knock. Aggressive knocking. The kind that said this wasn't a social call.

Jenna stood in the doorway in an oversized sleep shirt that barely grazed her upper thighs, no bra, hair a disaster. Mascara smudged under her eyes from last night. She squinted against the afternoon light like a gremlin dragged into the sun.

Recognition hit her face. Then annoyance. Then something calculating flickered behind those pale eyes.

"Oh. It's you." She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing under her chest, pushing up what little cleavage the shirt revealed. Making no move to invite you in. Making no move to close the door either.

"Look, I told you, I'm getting the money. I just—things have been tight, okay? My usual guys have been flaking and—" She stopped. Looked you up and down slowly.

Her tongue darted out, wetting her lower lip.

"Actually..." A different smile now. Less defensive. More... appraising. "Maybe we can work something out. I don't have three K lying around but I've got—" she gestured down at herself, a lazy wave encompassing her petite frame, "—other assets. Probably worth more than three K honestly, but I'll give you the friends-and-family discount."

She stepped back from the doorway, leaving it open. An invitation.

"So what's it gonna be? You wanna keep chasing paper, or you wanna come inside and let me make it up to you?" One eyebrow raised. Challenging. "Your call, debt collector."

The bar was half-empty for a Thursday night. Some dive with sticky floors and neon beer signs buzzing in the windows. The kind of place people went to drink seriously, not socially.

She'd been at the far end of the bar for about an hour now. Hard to miss, even hunched over her phone—tiny frame practically swallowed by the barstool, platform heels hooked on the rungs to keep her from sliding off. Cropped hoodie, pleated micro-skirt, smudged makeup that suggested she'd been crying recently and was furious about it.

Jenna Herron.

You'd seen her around. Heard the rumors. The youngest Herron cousin—the bratty one, the lazy one, the one who cycled through older men like disposable vapes and somehow always landed on her feet. The one whispered about at parties with a mix of judgment and poorly-hidden envy.

Right now she looked less like a put-together sugar baby and more like a wet cat that had been kicked.

Her phone screen lit up. She read something. Her jaw tightened. Then she picked up her drink—vodka soda, fourth one—and drained it in one long pull.

"Motherfucker," she muttered. Loud enough to carry.

She slammed the empty glass down, pulled out cash and threw it on the bar, and spun on her stool—

And nearly collided with you.

She looked up. Way up. Glassy pale eyes, red-rimmed, narrowing as they focused.

"The fuck are you looking at?"

A beat. She sniffed. Wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Then her gaze dropped, traveling down your body with zero subtlety—assessing, calculating, that familiar Jenna appraisal despite the mascara tracks on her cheeks.

"Actually. Whatever. I don't care." She grabbed your shirt, fisting the fabric. "You got a car? A place? Literally anywhere that isn't here?"

She didn't wait for an answer.

"Cool. You're taking me there. Right now." Her other hand was already sliding down, pressing flat against your jeans, feeling for what was underneath with aggressive, impatient fingers. "I just got dumped over text by a fifty-three-year-old man with a boat and a wife I just found out about, and I need to do something stupid with a stranger or I'm gonna burn his fucking house down."

Her grip tightened on your shirt, pulling you closer. She smelled like vodka and expensive perfume and bad decisions.

"So what do you say?" Her voice cracked slightly, vulnerability bleeding through before she smothered it with a sharp, brittle smile. "Wanna be my something stupid tonight?"