She pauses for a couple of seconds. I try not to worry, but the silence makes me feel uneasy.
“Well, he knows you are my sister,” she explains.
“That makes sense,” I try to sound confident, but, in reality, this isn’t sitting well in the pit of my stomach. “I’m not sure why I agreed to this.”
“Because it’s either this guy or you keep browsing your apps where you can’t find shit,” she reminds me. “It’s one date, Persy. Give the guy a chance.”
“If I text you, you have to rescue me.”
“I’m in Miami,” she reminds me. “Besides, he’s my client. It’s going to be fine. Trust me. I’m sending you his picture so you can spot him fast.”
As soon as my phone buzzes, I check my texts, and the picture appears. Light brown hair, green eyes, and a handsome face. She’s right. The guy is good looking. When I arrive at the Hard Rock Café, I see him almost immediately. He’s not too tall, but he’s certainly a few inches taller than me. I don’t complain. He is lean and has a gentle smile.
“Elijah?” I ask, as I get closer to him.
I won’t lie, the location doesn’t thrill me. It’s a cool place, but too loud for a first date. I would’ve preferred something more intimate, where we could spend some time getting to know each other.
He wipes his hand on his slacks and extends it to me. “Hi, Persy,” he greets me, his voice carries some squeak to it. “You are more beautiful in person.”
“Thank you…” Should I say likewise?
I’m not sure why my sister showed him my picture. I mean, we look a lot alike. It’s easier to say, imagine a shorter, rounder, noisier version of myself.
“I’ve heard all your podcasts,” he states and releases a nervous laughter that makes my skin crawl.
My stomach is tied into knots when he gives me a flirty smile and says, “I got us a room at the Four Seasons. I hope you brought some of your toys along.”
I blink a couple of times, take a deep breath, and send a quick text to Nyx as we walk inside the restaurant.
Persy: S.O.S.
Mom is actually the one who calls.
“Hey, Mom,” I answer right away, walking back to the entrance.
“Nyx says you are on a bad date and need help getting out of it,” she explains. “Is it really awful?”
“I’m sorry to hear that you are stranded, Mom. I could probably be there in ten minutes,” I answer. “Let me get my car.”
“Huh, that doesn’t sound great,” she says on the other side of the line. “Your dad wants to know if you want to come over for dinner.”
“Hey, my parents have an emergency,” I say apologetically. “Sorry, I… I need to go.”
“Would you like me to drive you?”
“No.” I wave my hand walking away quickly. “We can talk later.”
“Thank you, Mom,” I say, once I’m far enough from him. “The guy was creepy.”
“So, are you coming?”
“I’ll pass, with the traffic, it might take me two or three hours to get to you guys,” I explain. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Okay. Stay safe, Pers.”
“Love you, Mom.”
After hanging up the phone, I don’t walk. I run toward my apartment.
When I arrive, I ditch the jeans and put on a pair of shorts. After washing my face, I go to the kitchen and preheat the oven. It’s time to bake something before I murder someone. How dare that asshole assume that I’m going to have sex with him on the first date.
I take out the ingredients and decide to leave them out for an hour, so the butter is at room temperature. To kill the time, I grab a bottle of wine, open it and take a glass. Once I’m settled in the upstairs balcony, facing the mountains, I call Nyx. “He had a fucking hotel room ready. He asked me if I had brought some toys with me.”
“What?” she asks shocked.
I pour myself a glass of wine and tell her the story—which isn’t that long. Just a few minutes of a creepy conversation and an unsettling feeling. He expected sex. I don’t even think he wanted to have dinner. Once I’m done, she starts apologizing.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell her, staring at the horizon. “He got the wrong idea because of what I do. We go back to the fact that men don’t take me seriously.”
“Wearing that much color, I would have my reservations about you,” Chad jokes.
I glare at him. Why is he here? I mean, this is his building, and he lives next door, but does he always have to be around when I’m on the balcony?
He studies me and frowns. “Who upset you?”
I shrug in response.
“Everyone should know I’m the only one allowed to do that—it’s in the contract.”
I crack a smile, he smiles back. “What happened?”
“My date was…” I sigh, deflating.
“Do you want me to kick his ass?”
“Nah, but thank you for offering,” I answer. Curious about his own dating life, I ask, “You’re here on a Friday night?”
“At my house?” he asks, looking around. “Why is that weird?”
“Shouldn’t you be out hooking up?”
He shakes his head. “No, I have work to do, and after Martha, I’m still not in the mood to start something new.”
“Martha is your ex-girlfriend?” I ask confused.
He shakes his head, but before he can answer, Nyx interrupts, or more like reminds me that she’s on the phone “Are you talking to Grump Next Door?”
I put her on speaker, before I answer, “Yes, he’s here.”
“Hey, Grumpy Neighbor.”
“Is that the brat or your almost twin?” he asks.
“Nyx,” I answer. “And don’t call Callie a brat.”
“Only us, her siblings, have the right to do so,” Nyx adds. “You might be allowed to do it if she pisses you off, which I doubt will happen since she’s still not talking to us.”
He shrugs and gives me a look as if saying, you people can’t just answer a question with a short answer. “Good evening, Nyx.”
“I’m sorry about the date, Persy,” she apologizes one more time. “I wish I could be there with you, but I have that dinner, and if things work out, I might have a sleepover.”
“Don’t worry. I plan on baking, and if I don’t shake the funk, I have Grump to keep me company,” I lie, because after I’m done with the cookies, I plan on texting Lang who, hopefully, will be available to chat with me all night.
“Okay then, I’ll call you once I’m back home. Love you, sis,” she says and hangs up.
Chad looks at me and smirks. “Come on, Persephone. Open the forbidden door, and I’ll help you bake.”
“You don’t have to,” I say.
“I know, but I want to do it.”
Nineteen
Him
Friday June 19th
If I could rewind the last hour and rescind my offer to stay with Persy, I would. Maybe it’s just a matter of I should’ve just kept my mouth shut and not asked the stupid question of how did you become an influencer?
I never expected the answer would include her moaning loudly. Touching her neck and her flat belly seductively. Tossing her head back and forth as she thrusts her shoulders from left to right. God, if she fakes orgasms this way, I wonder what the real deal looks and sounds like.
I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to concentrate on other things, like nosy cats who make themselves at home when they aren’t welcome. My stepmother. Social gatherings with a bunch of strangers who just like to kiss ass. Dammit, who thought the answer to my question would include the personification of a scene from an old movie.
It’s not like I can just walk away because I, literally, asked for this.
“Yes, yes,” Persephone yelps, catching her breath.
I breathe heavily, as I watch her trying to recover from what would be an Oscar worthy representation of an orgasm, which sadly, I had nothing to do with.
“You did that inside a sex sh
op,” I say, swallowing the orange size knot in my throat.
“Yes. I mean, it was for a good cause,” she explains. “We were trying to cheer up Mom. She and Dad had just separated, and I proposed sex toys. Nyx recorded the whole thing. If you google it, you’ll find it.”
My mouth is completely dry. I’ve never witnessed a woman have such a sexy—or fake—orgasm, without me being responsible for the act. As I mentioned, it’s my fault for asking, but I thought it’d be something simpler like: I liked to post selfies on social media, and I got lucky.
Nope.
We only met a few weeks ago, but I can safely say that there’s nothing simple about Persephone Brassard.
“So, the video went viral and, overnight, you became this big phenomenon,” I conclude.
“Yes, that’s one way to put it. People liked the fact that I was able to explain to my mother what every toy did and how it felt—kind of.” She gives me a conspiratorial smile. “It’s not like I was trying them there. I’m sure recreating the When Harry Met Sally diner scene at a sex shop was a huge factor. There were also companies who started offering me sponsorships.”
“When did you start the podcast?”
“Soon after,” she says, not even paying attention to me. “By then, my practice was already established, and I got more patients.”
As she speaks, I grab onto the counter, hoping there’s nothing sexual, but bracing myself for another round of moans. I have to calm myself or I swear this is going to end up with her beautiful body pressed against the refrigerator or bent over the kitchen counter with me fucking her hard.
No, calm down. She’s off limits. You fuck her now, and tomorrow, she’s going to want a ring—or some kind of commitment.
As soon as she’s done with her explanation, things will go back to normal, and my dick will stop pushing against the zipper of my jeans.
Who the fuck am I kidding?
She could be talking about baseball statistics, and I would be turned on. With that silky voice and those hands. Fuck, her hands are working the cookie dough, and my brain is just thinking about her fingers fondling my balls and stroking my cock—which is hard as a rock. She shouldn’t have this kind of power over my body, and yet, this woman could be doing anything, and I’d want her.
It’s a matter of using my head and not letting my other head take over my decisions. Persephone and I have nothing in common. She drives me fucking insane. I wouldn’t be able to stand her for long. Even when I only hookup, I like them to last. It’s tedious to be jumping from one woman to another. Persephone would make me want to jump off the balcony after spending a couple of hours with her in bed—I think. I’m sure. Maybe not, because how much talking can she do while we fuck?
“You regret asking,” she suddenly says.
“Not at all,” I lie. “Please, go on. This is so entertaining.”
She gives me a suspicious look but continues kneading and talking. “People would ask me questions via direct message about toys or techniques, and I would redirect them to my blog.”
“So, you had a blog?”
She stops touching the dough and glances at me. “Yeah, I started my blog during grad school. When my parents got back together, people just assumed it was me who brought them together. So now everyone trusts that I can solve their love life.”
“But it wasn’t you,” I tell her.
Her eyes find mine, and she sighs. “Maybe a little. Listen, I was desperate. Dad is the worst roommate in the world.”
I laugh. “You did get them back together.”
“We talked through things, yes. I wasn’t giving them therapy—it’s unethical. However, I was more like pushing for them to solve their relationship problems. Their separation felt like purgatory. They were in a place where neither one was moving forward. I just made sure they made the decision to divorce or work things out.”
I whistle. “That’s a big undertaking. No wonder people trust you.”
“I try. You know … it’s not easy. At times, people really don’t care about their mental health or their relationships. They just assume things are that way and there’s nothing to fix. However, I am not a magician. I’m not the best counselor for everyone—it’s not a one size fits all. Which is why I have a huge warning on my page. This is what I know best, but not everything I say or recommend applies to everyone.”
“But what you do sometimes takes away from your private life.”
“Well, this whole thing comes at a price.” Her voice comes out with a hint of sadness.
“Fame comes at a price,” I confirm. “If you had a choice between finding the guy of your dreams or your career?”
“That’s not fair,” she says. “Why do people have to quit what they love in order to get respect and love? You are telling me that until I quit, no one is going to take me seriously, aren’t you?”
“Hey, don’t shoot me for asking a question,” I protest in a soft voice. “If a guy can’t see that you are a smart, fun, and successful woman, they don’t deserve you. And you’re right, you shouldn’t be choosing, but you also have to accept that as long as you are sharing that much—you belong to them.”
“That I get, and that’s why a part of me is just mine,” she says, getting a cookie sheet out and placing the cookies after she cuts them.
There’s a long silence, and I’m pretty sure there’s something bugging her. I choose to keep that peaceful moment, until it becomes uncomfortable. No, more like I’m missing the sound. Her voice. The energy that surrounds her when she’s happy and animated. I choose not to think more of why and ask her a question. “Do you still have a practice?”
“Yep. Now I do it via video-chat,” she answers. “Sheila is the one who set all that up for me.”
I frown. “Wait, you use VideoSpeak for that?”
“Uh-huh,” she answers. “It was some prototype that Clyde was testing … I think he sold it to a company later. That company honored the contract I had with them.”
“Wait, do you pay her for that service?” I ask, trying to act calm and rational.
“Yeah. I can’t remember how much they charge me, but, as I said, it was an introductory price, and the program is super easy to use. I can connect from anywhere and everywhere,” she says, before putting the cookie sheet inside the oven. “Why? Do you need something like that set up?”
“No,” I answer, trying to hide the anger.
This explains why the private chat I set up for Sheila gets used so often. She doesn’t pay anything—the service is free—unless they don’t want the ads. Hey, we have to make money somewhere. However, Sheila’s room is ad free … and free. Yet, she is charging her friend.
“How did Sheila become your agent?”
“We’ve been friends for years,” she answers, cutting more cookies and placing them onto a new tray. “She lived in the same neighborhood as my grandparents. When I went viral, she contacted me and offered her services. It seemed like a great idea at the time—and she’s really helped me get a lot of sponsorships. Even my book deals.”
She freezes, stares at the cookies, and then continues working. Whatever just went through her mind is either forgotten or filed, and fuck if I don’t wish to know what just happened.
“You must be making her a lot of money since you are her only client.”
“I do well,” she confirms. “Like really, if it wasn’t because I lent all my money to Eros, I could’ve leased a place that required a deposit and first and last months’ rent.”
I want to ask more about this lending her money to her brother, but I’m more concerned about Sheila and Clyde. I swear, with all the scams they do, they could be the modern Bonnie and Clyde.
“Listen, I don’t want to upset the balance between Sheila and you—”
She glares at me and says, “I don’t care about your problems with Clyde. They are my friends, and yes, I’m sure there’s another side of the story, but I am not interested. As I told her the other day, your issues aren’t m
ine. Do not put me in the middle of your family drama. I think you are a decent person, and whatever they say about you doesn’t affect my relationship with you. Honestly, you three should be in family therapy.”
We have a relationship? I freeze for a moment because we’re just neighbors. Then, I realize, she calls everything a fucking relationship, because it’s an interaction between two people. Once I recover, I tsk a couple of times.
“Clearly, they like to air our family issues. I wasn’t going to comment on my complicated relationship with those two. I was going to offer you the same program for free. Since you don’t care about it, let’s move on.”
“Wait, are you serious?” she asks animated. “Free?”
“Why would I lie?”
“Well, it’s a deal Clyde made,” she says. “I don’t want you to—”
“For fuck’s sake,” I grunt, exasperated. “That’s my software. He didn’t do shit with it. I let him have that specific room ad free because I do stupid shit for him—even when I don’t care for him. This is my building. I wonder what else they are selling you or anyone else that I’ve given them for free.”
Her mouth opens and her pretty face switches from peaceful to angry—which she does often with me. “Are you kidding me?”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’m just… Let’s keep baking, but you might want to run an audit. It’s always a good business procedure. And believe me, I’m saying this knowing the consequences of you firing her are going to hit me right in my wallet.”
“Why don’t you like them?”
“I like Clyde well enough, though he is a spoiled thirty-year-old man,” he complains. “I really don’t care about them one way or another—unless they fuck up with Nate or me.”
Or, in this case, you. I know this isn’t any of my damn business, but knowing those two, they are taking advantage of Persy. Which pisses me off in an unexplainable way. Persephone works her butt off all day long. Early in the morning, she’s doing her mediation/yoga video. She spends the rest of the day talking nonsense. Sometimes, I can hear her clearly when she’s on the balcony or in her bedroom. Other times, I can’t make out what’s happening, but I know she’s doing something work related.
Wrong Text, Right Love Page 12