by Penny Wylder
"Only if you want me to rip your dick off." I scowl and hang up.
It buzzes again. Same number. I hit ignore.
Now a text message appears. New number this time.
Lookin' to party wit u bee-yoo-tee-full.
I delete it.
Another one follows hard on its heels.
Gawd girl them tits are fine as hell.
And more. And more. And more. Pretty soon it's all I can do to type anything between hitting ignore on calls and deleting text messages. Finally, I manage to make my own outgoing call, to Zayne.
I press the phone to my ear, ignore the buzz that lets me know I'm missing other incoming calls in the meantime.
On his end, it just rings and rings. I grit my teeth, dig my nails into my palms and pray with every ounce of energy I have.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"What's up? This is Zayne, leave me one—"
I hang up before his sexy baritone voice even finishes the voicemail message. Screw him.
You did, my helpful subconscious reminds me. Over and over and over again. Hell, if I clench my pussy tight enough, I can still feel the sweet, deep ache where his clock was just this morning when we had one last quickie before I headed into work. When he kissed me on the lips and I felt like I could conquer the whole world with him beside me.
He didn't do this. He wouldn't. I know him. Maybe not well, maybe not for a long time, but enough to know this isn't his style. If he just wanted to humiliate me, he got this photo way back on Friday night. He had all weekend to ruin my life. He didn't need to spend the whole weekend fucking me senseless in the meantime.
I manage to try him again in between the ongoing deluge of creeper calls. It goes to voicemail, again. After many rings, too. So he’s either seeing my call and dodging it, not hitting the ignore button either, so I won’t know he’s there, or he’s honestly away from the phone. I’m guessing the latter, since if he did something like this on purpose, he wouldn’t care about my feelings being hurt if he sent my phone call straight to voicemail.
Crap.
He was supposed to be at work, but when I passed the reception desk earlier, Paul was on. Maybe he took off for some reason, or had to run an errand? Maybe he’s back at the desk by now?
I can’t recall exactly when the shifts change here, and screw it, this is important. I pocket my phone, grab my wallet and my keys, and charge for the elevator. I head up to his apartment first, figuring if he hasn’t started work yet, he might still be up there getting ready.
My pussy tightens as the elevator slows to a halt on his floor. One weekend and my body has already gotten accustomed to anticipating sex when I reach this spot. Already, my mind fills with memories—him pinning me against the front door after I returned from an errand downstairs to my apartment. He couldn’t even wait to drag me inside—he stripped me right there, and fucked me against the door, my legs around his waist, our hips digging into one another.
Then, of course, there was later that night, in the kitchen just off his hallway, as we tried to cook together but kept getting distracted by the brush of our arms as we reached around one another for supplies, and the way the heat from the stove made him smell even more delicious, practically edible… I’d bent over to pull some extra veggies from the fridge when he grabbed me from behind and flipped up my skirt. The sensation had been unique to say the least—the cool air from the fridge spilling over my shoulders as he gripped my hips and slid into me from behind, fucking me right there in the middle of dinner prep.
I’m breathing hard by the time I reach his front door, even though it’s only a few steps from the elevator. Get ahold of yourself, I order, trying to slow my breathing, calm my frayed nerves. This visit isn’t about sex. This is about something so much more important. It’s about my career, my future, my work… My whole life hinges on figuring out who is trying to ruin me and why.
I hit the buzzer.
Then I wait. And wait. And wait.
I check my phone to be sure I’m not imagining it, because it feels like time is crawling. I hit the buzzer one more time, just to be sure. Maybe he was in the shower and didn’t hear it, or maybe he’s listening to music. But the bell goes off, loud as ever, loud enough that I can hear it all the way from out here in the hallway. And from within Zayne’s apartment, I only hear silence in response.
I shake my head. Okay, not home. So maybe he is downstairs at work.
I climb back into the elevator and clench my thighs tight around my pussy. It feels disappointed, almost angry at me, for bringing it all the way up to this floor and not giving it the release it demands. It scares me how hungry I am for Zayne already, after barely any time of knowing him.
I reach the ground floor and step out of the elevator, make a beeline for the front desk. Paul is still standing there, in the same spot where I walked past him an hour ago, smiling cheerily at one of the second floor tenants as she breezes past.
I sidestep to let her into the elevator, then approach the front desk, chest tight.
“Hey Paul.”
He blinks, though if he’s surprised to see me speaking to him first, he conceals it well behind that practiced smile of his. “Ms. Walker. How can I help you?”
“Um.” This is going to sound weird. I know it is. But there’s nothing I can really do about that just now. “I’m looking for Zayne, actually. Have you seen him?”
Paul’s eyebrows do a little dance above his face, as though deciding whether or not to rise in surprise. Eventually, he settles for just smiling a smidge wider, still polite as ever. “He’s out for lunch at the moment. His shift starts at 4 today, if you’d like to stop back then. Although, if it’s anything I can help you with in the meantime, I’d be delighted to offer my assistance.”
Unless you happen to be an expert in tracking down cyber stalkers or revenge porn enthusiasts, I don’t think you can, I resist saying. I just smile instead. “Thanks, Paul. I’ll stop back later.”
But my mind is already racing. I think about the coffee shop where we ate our first meal together, what feels like a lifetime ago already, even though it’s only been a few days. I know it’s a long shot, but he did say it’s one of his favorite spots in the area. Maybe that’s where he’d go now.
I speed-walk the few blocks there, heart in my throat. All the while, I can feel my phone buzzing in my pocket, every few minutes another text or phone call. Some of the callers have started leaving voicemails, which I don’t even want to listen to. I delete them all unread, and wonder how hard it will be to program my phone to send all these new incoming calls straight to voicemail in the future. Will I have to change my number? Can I block this many phone numbers?
Zayne couldn’t have done this to me. He wouldn’t. But maybe he’ll have some idea how to help fix it. Or at least some advice on what could’ve gone wrong. Did his phone get stolen? Did someone break into it?
I reach the café and steal a peek through the windows. Sure enough, there he is at the back table, the same one we shared last Friday when he was trying to cheer me up after my especially shitty day at work. He doesn’t see me yet—he’s still eating, his eyes fixed on the seat across from him, half-glazed, as though deep in thought. I wonder what about. I wonder if he knows how horribly my life has blown up since I left him this morning.
I wonder if he had something to do with it.
I steel my heart. Push through the doors into the restaurant.
He glances up when the bell jingles, and his eyes light up at the sight of me, a smile spreading across his face. He half-rises from his chair by the time I make it to his table, but I pull out the other seat before he can reach me and drop into it, bypassing a hug. I can’t get distracted, and I know I will if I let him touch me. I need to talk about this with a clear head, to get straight answers.
“What’s wrong?” Zayne asks, after taking one look at my expression. I can’t imagine what I look like right now. Murderous? Scared? On the brink of tears?
I feel lik
e all three at once.
In response, I pull out my phone. I tap on the screen and open the website and I pass it to him without a word. My throat aches, and my eyes sting. Something about this feels worse than knowing my office saw the photo. Zayne was the intended recipient of this picture, so why does it bother me for him to see it again?
That’s not it, I realize. What bothers me is the caption, the comments under it. The talking-to my boss gave me earlier today. The way the whole world is judging me for sending a semi-nude selfie to a guy I cared about. Care about. Or was starting to care about, anyway.
I shake my head, and clear my throat, because Zayne still hasn’t said anything. “Well?” I ask.
He finally lifts his head, eyes wide. “Clove…”
“I only sent that photo to one person,” I say, my voice getting louder, heated. “My phone has been with me ever since. I really don’t see how else anyone could’ve found that photo, unless…” My throat closes up. I can’t finish that sentence.
He doesn’t make me. His eyes meet mine, serious and heavy. “Unless I sent it to them.”
I swallow around the lump that’s forming. “Did you?”
“Clove…”
I close my eyes. I can’t watch him. Can’t make eye contact, not if he’s about to tell me that he just fucked over my entire life, all for some sick revenge porn scheme.
His hand closes around mine, and I flinch involuntarily, because that touch still floods me with desire, a heat that’s impossible to ignore.
“I would never, ever do something like that to you. Or to anyone, really. But especially not you.”
I open my eyes. Find him staring straight at me, his expression still as deadly serious as ever. I nod, and blink hard as my eyes sting once more, threatening tears again. “But…”
He shakes his head, squeezes my fingers tighter. “We’re going to fix this, Clove.”
“How?” The tears threaten to sting at my eyes again. “My company is already trying to track down this person. Whoever did this, they were smart. Really smart. They covered their tracks, and if a professional in the industry can’t find them, there’s no way we can.”
“Sure we can.” His eyes go hard and distant, focused on the window outside instead of me now. “Because I know who it is.”
I tug at my hand, freeing my fingers from his, startled by the sudden fierce anger in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“There’s only one person who would do this. One person who’s already done this before.”
“What are you talking about?” I shake my head. “Zayne, you’re scaring me a little bit.” I’ve never seen him look like this, so intense and furious. It’s not directed at me, but still. Who knew what kind of anger was hiding underneath his bright, smiling exterior?
“There’s… This has happened to women I’ve dated before.”
My shoulders tense. Now I feel some of that anger flooding over into me. “Wait. You’re saying you knew this was a possibility?”
“I didn’t know that—”
“Women who have sent you sexts before have had their photos leaked publicly?” I press on, leaning into the table, eyes on his.
He meets my gaze reluctantly. “A couple of times, yes.”
“And you didn’t think you should tell me that before you asked me to send you a half-naked selfie in a bar bathroom the other night?” I lower my voice to a hiss, all too aware of the other customers in here, the stares we’re already starting to attract, because even at whisper-volume, I can’t contain the fury in my tone.
“It hasn’t happened in years, so I thought—”
“Who is it?” I interrupt.
“Clove, I can’t—”
“Who is doing this to me? You must know, if you’re the one the leak is coming from. Did they hack into your phone, whoever it is?” A sudden, horrible realization sinks into my stomach. “Oh, god. Are you involved with someone? Are you cheating on them, is that why?”
“What? Clove, no, of course not, you saw my apartment.”
True. That was a bachelor pad if ever I’ve set foot in one.
“How can you accuse me of that?” He shakes his head, genuine hurt in his eyes.
But I can’t sit here and listen to this from the man who just knowingly let me walk straight into a trap. Whether the person doing this to him is in the wrong or not, he knew about it all along. He knew and let me fall for it.
I push my chair back and surge to my feet. “If you won’t tell me what’s going on, I’m going to have to find out myself.”
“Clove, please, let me handle it. I’ll talk to her.”
“Her, huh?” I lift an eyebrow and skewer him with another glower. “Well, while you’re doing that, why don’t you have a long think about why you don’t even trust me enough to tell me about my new stalker, too.” Without another word, I snatch up my purse and sweep out of the restaurant, shoulders squared against the outside air.
8
It’s a nice day outside, balmy and just warm enough, but not so hot that the pavement feels like it’s going to cook me from below. The kind of day I’d normally enjoy at an outdoor café for lunch with Andy and Celeste. Instead, I’ve been banished from my company, relegated to the backseat, moping around my home while trying to figure out how to fix my trash fire of a life.
I make a beeline for my apartment and ignore another pang of latent, frustrated sexual tension as I cross the threshold and pass the doorman’s desk. Paul is still there, of course, waiting for Zayne to start his shift. Tonight, if I have any reason to leave my building, I’ll have to walk straight past him. Stare at his smug expression, those knowing eyes, that smirk of his, all the while knowing that he helped ruin my life. And worst of all, he won’t even tell me why.
Her.
Some woman is doing this. Some woman connected to him. He says it’s not a current lover, and I believe that, if for no other reason than that he’s right, I’d have seen some evidence of another woman around his place. A toothbrush, possessions lying around, something.
But who else would want to destroy him so badly? A scorned ex? Maybe someone he did something similar to? Did he ever put up revenge porn of another woman?
Or is he a much better liar than I think? Maybe this is all him. Maybe it’s all part of his fucked-up plan to ruin women’s lives. To fuck them senseless, make them fall for him, and then cut them down… Why?
For fun?
I think of the words on the website. Slut. He called me that, but in fun, sexy, possessive tones that made it sound hot as hell. I liked it when he called me that in that setting, when it was just me and him. Is this his real kink, though, getting off on sleeping with women and then humiliating them in public?
There are a lot of screwed up men in this city, after all. I should know. I’ve gone on dates with more than a few of them.
I ball my hands into fists, dig my nails in to keep myself alert as the elevator doors ding open on my floor. There’s something stuck to my door, a note about a package delivery it looks like. I ignore it. No time for that right now. I sweep inside and head straight to my computer. First things first, I need to start doing some damage control.
I check the policies section of the dating app’s website first. There’s nothing about what to do if someone leaks photos sent via the app without your permission, but I write a long email to their contact person anyway, just in case it helps. If nothing else, maybe they can beef up their security in the meantime and help stop this happening to some other poor, innocent girl.
I have to click into Zayne’s profile to send them all the details on what happened, who I sent the photo to and how it was leaked. Doing that sets off a riot of feelings in my gut all over again. Because right there on the cover photo is him, gazing at me with those damn blue eyes, so impossible to tear mine away from. Even pixelated on a screen, he’s hot as hell.
I’d thought, crazy as it seemed, about deleting this app after this weekend. I’d thought, why do I need it? I�
�ve already found a guy who’s way better than any of the other losers, and it turns out I already knew him in person. I didn’t need this stupid app to help us hook up.
But now? I don’t even know how to feel. A crazy person stole my image from his app, is threatening me, publicly harassing me, and he doesn’t even trust me enough to tell me what’s going on. How can I reconcile that with the guy I thought I was falling for?
My heart sinks into my stomach. I read this all wrong. I misread all the signals. He’s not into this, not the way that I am.
My throat clenches hard as I click away from his profile. But closing the window doesn’t help remove the memories. They surge up again, brought to the surface by the sight of that image all over again. Yesterday, it was only yesterday. It feels like a different era. A completely different life.
We’d finished lunch and we were playing a game at his dining room table. Poker. He was trying to teach me the rules, but I was abysmal. I kept betting on nothing hands, going all in on a pair of twos. So he changed the rules.
“Strip poker now,” he’d said with a grin, gaze fixed hungrily on me.
“Okay,” I agreed, and I didn’t tell him that I already planned to continue sucking. Even more so now.
He dealt another hand, but this time, for once, I had decent cards. I hesitated, double-checking. But no. I was right. I had a good hand. So I placed a bet. Zayne rolled his eyes and matched it.
“You have to fold sometimes,” he pointed out. “You can’t go all-in on every hand and expect me to believe you’ve got something when the last five times you didn’t.”
I shrug and raise again. “Never know,” I said. “The tides could have turned in my favor.”
“Poker isn’t the only thing you need to practice, Clove,” he admonished with a wink. “You need to work on lying, too.”
“But isn’t that what you love about me? My innocent guile?” I raised again, and he matched again, and I could feel the win creeping up on me.