Tink24: I dreamed about you last night.
Riverrat69: Anything good?
Tink24: All of it was good. Except the waking up alone part. That part sucked.
Riverrat69: Feeling a little frustrated, are we?
Frustrated is an understatement. Abstinence hasn’t been good to me. Maybe it’s just all the pressure of making sure I find the right guy, but it’s almost as if the moment I decided I was holding out for the one, every guy I’ve connected with has failed in the physical connection category.
Tink24: I miss sex.
Riverrat69: Surely with all these dates you’ve been on, you’ve gotten a few moments of satisfaction?
Tink24: You overestimate the men in this town. This last guy I took home . . . he was a good kisser—usually you can tell by their kisses. Then he invited me back to his place and got his hand in my panties and I swear he thought he was trying to prime a lawnmower to start, the way he kept pressing on my clit. Jab, jab, jab. Is that supposed to do something for me?
Truth be told, it wasn’t his total lack of finesse with the female anatomy that crossed him off my list. It was that being around him did nothing for me. He was nice enough, just bland. Every man who hasn’t been completely objectionable has felt bland to me. With two exceptions: Sam and Riverrat69. Or is that one exception?
Riverrat69: You’re exaggerating. We’re talking fingering here, not rocket science.
I bite back a laugh, and Connor looks up from his computer and cocks his head. I clear my throat. “Just an email from my sister,” I lie. “She’s hilarious.”
Riverrat69: They should make straight boys take a class on pussy. I remember back when my brother hit puberty and cornered me with questions . . . God bless him, he was trying to figure it out, but I lost sleep for weeks worrying about the poor girl he got to third base with the first time.
Tink24: What would they teach in your proposed pussy class?
Riverrat69: Not to jab at the clit like it’s a primer, for starters. You’re not drilling for oil, for Christ’s sake. Pussy 101 would focus on foreplay, technique, patience, and execution.
Tink24: If you put this on Kickstarter, women everywhere would donate to the cause.
Riverrat69: It’s a matter about which I care very deeply. Very.
I look up at Connor again, and his brow is wrinkled as he watches me. I hurry and close out the chat application and pull up my email. God, I haven’t even been here a week and I’m already having risqué chat conversations on the clock. Not that I’m getting paid by the hour, or much at all for that matter, but still. I want to keep this job.
The email with the suggested speech revisions is waiting for me, and I put my head down and get to work.
Chapter Eight
Liz
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” I tap on my screen wildly as if there’s some magical swipe-tap-hyperventilate combination that can take the text back. Or, more specifically, the picture. Nausea rolls over me and I drop my phone to the counter and press my hands to my hot cheeks. It’s over. It’s done. The picture is out there.
“Liz?” I look up to see my mom standing in my kitchen, frowning at me. Her hair is extra coifed tonight, and her frown extra condemning. Which, if you know my mother, is saying something. If a frown can say, “Anything that’s wrong in your life, you brought on yourself,” Mom’s does. She doesn’t mean to be a judgmental harpy where all of her daughters are concerned, kind of like clowns don’t mean to be creepy. Intent is pretty much irrelevant.
I drop my hands from my cheeks. “Hi, Mom.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. It’s just hot in here. I’m feeling a little woozy.” I’m not about to tell my mother that I accidentally sent a naked picture to Sam Bradshaw.
I want to meet River in person. I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind since he suggested it. But given my complicated history with Sam, I decided that River/probably Sam needed to know exactly whom he was meeting. When I sent the picture, I was so busy thinking about what Sam’s reaction would be, I sent it to Sam via text message, rather than to River via Something Real chat—a picture of myself in nothing but a purple lace thong, black heels, and a smile.
Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck, fuck, fuck.
It shouldn’t matter, but now instead of the picture being the way I tell River/probably Sam that I am Tink24, the picture is on its way to Sam’s phone from my phone. Even if it’s really the same thing, it’s not the same thing at all.
“You’re not wearing that, are you?” Mom asks. She narrows her eyes so disapprovingly at my fuzzy candy-cane sleep pants and white tank that, for a moment, I consider it. Just because it would get Mom’s hackles up, I want to wear my pajamas to Hanna’s wedding rehearsal. Hanna wouldn’t care. She’s so sleep deprived from taking care of the twins while Nate’s been on tour that she probably wouldn’t even notice.