"From what you've told me, Jeremy is itty bitty, and I don't think so." She sat back and crossed her arms. "Chicks before dicks. I'm not letting you make a fool out of yourself. You'll thank me tomorrow."
"I'm not making a fool out of myself. I just want to tell him that I'm happy he and Barbie—"
She wound her blonde locks into a sloppy ponytail, pinning a rubber band between her teeth. "Bambi."
"Whatever he's wetting his dick with now." I rolled my eyes.
"Yeah, you're oozing with congratulatory happiness. Face it. You're still pissed you caught him fucking her on his riding lawnmower, aren't you?"
Visuals of walking in on Jeremy as he thrust his tiny cock into the ass of a skinny brunette with the IQ of a celery stalk filled my head. Involuntarily, I scowled, remembering the sound as she faked it, moaning his name. Her flailing arms and high-pitched squeals quickly tanked the mood when she realized I was standing in the doorway. Every time I heard someone mowing the grass, I’d be forever reminded of my ex-boyfriend. Thanks a lot, Jeremy.
“Beck?” Madeline snapped her fingers in front of my face.
"It was our two year anniversary! I swear John Deere is rolling over in his grave." I raised my glass too quickly and a healthy splatter of Pinot Grigio overflowed onto the floor. Watching the liquid soak into the cream-colored carpet, I pursed my lips. "That's gonna stain."
"No more party fouls for you.” She took the glass from my grip and set the blue-tinted goblet down on the table. “It's alcohol abuse."
I sighed. "Fine."
"You need to get over it. Move on." She waggled her eyebrows. "You know, Gavin's available."
I scrunched my nose. "The last time I saw Gavin he looked like a lumberjack. All that flannel."
She raised an eyebrow. "He is a lumberjack."
"You could hide a small woodland creature in his beard; no one would know for days."
She pursed her lips.
"C'mon." I rolled my eyes. "Gavin's your brother."
"So?" She finished her drink, chugging the rest before ending it with a grandiose burp. “We both know he’s had a thing for you since we were kids.”
"Classy.” I frowned. “What do you mean 'so'? It'd be like sleeping with my own brother. Thank you, no."
"You don't have a brother."
"You know what I mean." I shuddered, thinking about the generous amount of facial hair spanning Gavin’s face. "Yuck. And listening to you offer your brother for a sexcapade kind of creeps me out.”
"Look. Here's what's about to happen." She began pushing buttons on my phone. "Bitch about it all you want."
"What are you doing?" My eyes widened.
"Deleting Jeremy's number."
My eyes widened. "But—"
"Beck, he screwed another girl...on a piece of lawn equipment...while you were fifty feet away in the house making him dinner. She was probably picking grass clippings out of her mimsy for days." In a dramatic gesture, she used her index finger and sealed the deal, deleting my ex-boyfriend's number with the press of one button. "There."
I watched her set the phone down on the table. "Seriously?"
“C’mon, Beck. You’ve said it yourself. Jeremy’s a two-pump chump. When was the last time he got you off?”
I pursed my lips.
“You know I’m right.” She shrugged, and her eyes flicked down at the phone on the table. "The dirty work’s done, and I have to sleep. Work in the morning."
"Do you really think you should leave? You've had just as much to drink as I have."
"I live next door; I'm fine. Besides, if I get pulled over by a hall cop, you'll be my one phone call. Promise." She paused, closing one eye deep in thought. "Who am I kidding? If I get cuffed, odds are the cop's gonna get laid. Seriously though, I have to be at Peek-y Brew at five."
"How can you even say the name of that coffee shop with a straight face? Your uniform can double as a strand of dental floss."
"With the tips I get?" She arched an eyebrow. "There's no shame in my game, Beck. And trust me, I've had a lot of offers for my dental floss."
"Uh huh. Well, I hope you remember where the door is because if I stand up right now, I'm going to puke."
"Get some sleep." She kissed me on the forehead. "And no texting Jeremy."
"How would I text him? You deleted his number, remember?"
"No texting," she reiterated. "Think about getting yourself laid, and forget about the teeny weenie. Even if it's a one-night stand."
"Don't start." I groaned.
"Hey, it's better than lamenting over missing out on sex next to a weed whacker or a leaf blower." She snickered. "I said 'whacker' and 'blower' in the same sentence."
"Are you five?" I threw a pillow at her across the room and heard something crash. I was too drunk to care what broke as I fought back a laugh. "Hey, Mad?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think it's a coincidence he screwed a girl that looks like a doe on a John Deere? Just sayin'."
"We both know Jeremy'd fuck a tree knot named Woody if it had a vagina. Let it go, sweetie."
Without another word from Madeline, I heard the door click shut behind her. I was alone to contend with the spinning room. Closing my eyes, it mimicked the sensation of being on a carousel worse. "Fuck, someone turn the walls off," I muttered. "Please?"
The cell phone on the coffee table caught my attention as I adjusted my position on the couch. I reached for it three times before succeeding, snagging it off the glass. The delay wasn't because I was intoxicated; it was because I knew what I was about to do—not listen to Madeline.
Scrolling through my address book, I confirmed Jeremy's number was definitely gone. "Son of a bitch," I muttered. Madeline had even deleted Holly's digits, not that Jeremy's sister wanted to hear from me. She'd flung imaginary daggers at me since day one.
I just wanted one last jab at my ex. One last chance to tell him to fuck off, you know? It all sounded completely rational inside my head. Then again, a lot of ideas sound rational after five jumbo glasses of boxed wine on an empty stomach. I glanced at the giant juice box of vino and groaned.
Seriously. Everything seemed more reasonable while drunk: sleeping with that guy at the bar with the weird under bite, dancing on top of a table at the club…commando…in a mini-skirt, or spending a ridiculous amount of money on infomercials at two in the morning. All of those? Great ideas!
Infomercials. I sighed.
Glancing toward the kitchen, I knew a set of Gertrude’s Ginsu Knives were the result of a fight with Jeremy and a drunken vodka stupor two months ago. The granny-style flower-patterned blanket that doubled as one-piece jammies was still in its original packaging, hermetically sealed in my closet. That was an outcome of too many shots of whiskey after Jeremy borrowed my car. Did I mention he ran it into a hot dog vendor? Not the cart. He plowed it into the actual tubed meat salesman. Maybe Madeline was right; good decisions and I didn’t mesh.
Racking through my brain, I kept thinking, trying to remember Jeremy's number. With one eye shut, I ridiculously thought it’d help clue me in. My fingers shook as I tried to type the numbers on the blurry keypad. Suddenly, I felt as if I were on The Price is Right as I opted for one number higher or one number lower. The second to last digit was a guess. "Is it an eight or a six? Maybe a three? Zero? Great. Now, I’m talking to myself," I muttered.
A new text from Madeline scrolled across the top of the screen. "No bad decisions!"
Does she have a video camera in here? I scanned the room, suddenly paranoid. Growling, I sent the message to the trashcan without skimming the rest of her chastising words.
"It's a five, right?" I was positive it was a five. Okay, I was confident – pretty certain. Who was I kidding? I was going out on a limb and continuing my long line of bad choices. Alcohol gave me a disease—blazing confidence.
Typing on the miniature screen, I finished the sentence.
I hope you're putting a lot of miles on your new toy.
Chewing my lip, I thought about adding something, but then decided less was more. My thumb hovered over the ‘send’ button for what felt like an hour, my palms clammy before I eventually executed the action with a quick motion.
Setting the glass and the cell phone on the table, I was satisfied. My last jab was completed. There was no going back now. I had closure and was moving on.
Going back.
Wait.
My eyes widened as a sobering thought crossed my mind, and remorse hit me. What am I doing? I grabbed a throw pillow and screamed into it. The phone buzzed, but I was too scared to look at the response. Ignorance was bliss, right? Part of me felt sick to my stomach, and I reached for the cell. At the last second, I stopped myself. Instead of dissecting my actions, I rolled over and buried my face into the sofa until the merry-go-round slowed enough for me to fall asleep.
* * *
The next morning, I woke up with a jackhammer chipping away at my skull, and a string of drool puddled between my mouth and the sofa cushion. Birds chirped outside, and my neighbor upstairs was vacuuming. “Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you, Piper?" I glared at the ceiling. "Who the hell vacuums at...." I looked at the clock. "Nine? It's nine?” My heart paused. “I was supposed to be at work an hour ago!"
I sat up too quickly, the room taking a minute to settle around me. In turn, the memories of wine washed over me, and my teeth felt fuzzy. Yuck.
After the fastest shower of my life, I threw on a pair of black slacks, a gray fitted sweater, and my favorite black heels. Snagging my purse and cell phone from the table, I darted out the door.
A short while later, I walked through the entryway of Allistair Plaza and caught eye of Claire, the receptionist. "Mr. Lawton's not happy you're late." She scrunched her tiny nose, making it appear almost nonexistent. In return, the action made her baby blue eyes appear unnaturally large. "He's been looking for you all morning."
I moaned as I walked past her. "Fabulous."
"Did you spend the night at a bar or something?" She sniffed the air.
"No, why?" I asked, smelling my sleeve. Shit! Do I reek of alcohol?
"Nothing. Must just be my pregnant nose," she said, reaching for an incoming call.
Hurrying down the hall, I ran my fingers through my hair and adjusted the bottom of my sweater before stopping in my boss’s doorway. "Sorry I'm late, Mr. Lawton."
His nose was buried deep in a document on his desk, the bald spot on his head gleaming against the fluorescent lighting. He murmured something about a stack of files on my desk and dismissed me with a wave of his hand.
Without another word, I walked down the hall and into my office, slumping my shoulders when I flipped on the light switch. Calling it a 'stack of papers' was an understatement. The pile could pass for the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Throwing my purse on the desk, my cell phone fell out, a red light blinking that I had a new text message. Weird, I don't remember getting a text.
Picking up the phone, I noticed the message listing a blocked number. I scrutinized the words that followed.
Thank you for the midnight message, but I don't remember getting a new toy.
New toy? Jeremy! I'd dialed the wrong number. "Why me?" Embarrassment filled my stomach as I damned the wine from the night prior. Blowing a lock of hair out of my face, I spun the phone in a circle and tapped my pink fingernail against the glossy oak of the desk. Do I apologize or do I let it go? For once, I wanted to do something that wasn’t typical for Beckley. Maybe it was time for a change and to add some risk into my life. What’s the worst that could happen?
I typed out a quick reply.
Sorry, wrong number.
A few seconds later, I received a response.
No worries, wrong number girl.
I raised an eyebrow. How does he know I’m a female?
Eyeing the pile on my desk, I wasn't motivated by the number of insurance calls I needed to make. I knew the drill, and it was an endless cycle. Once the pile of medical claims was resolved, an equally large mountain would take its place. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Instead of focusing on my work, I leaned back in my chair and replied to the text.
How did you know I'm a woman?
My phone beeped again.
You just told me. So, what's wrong number girl up to today?
Slipping my shoes off, I bit my lip. Again, work didn't captivate me. Madeline was busy at the coffee stand, and I sure as hell wasn't going to try my luck at texting Jeremy again. The idea of carrying on a conversation with someone I didn’t know was somehow...tempting.
I shook my head. Am I really going to sit here and text a stranger? Before I could continue my internal debate, I took the plunge and quickly typed another message.
Wrong number girl is working.
The phone beeped.
And speaking in the third person.
I let a laugh out through my nose as my fingers danced across the keys.
Witty. So, what do I call you?
The response was almost immediate.
Abe. What does wrong number girl do for work?
If the sender wasn’t lying, he was male. The game was becoming more dangerous. I typed a reply as I glanced up at the clock. Explaining my mundane and monotonous calls to insurance companies to reprocess medical claims was enough to send me to sleep, and I’d worked in the industry for six years. I opted to keep it simple.
Paper pusher. You?
Finances.
I sighed. Well, now we've been equally as vague. I sat back in my chair and crossed my legs, plotting my next response.
And how do I know 'Abe' isn't a ninety-year-old woman with blue hair and a Chihuahua?
A few minutes later, my phone chirped that I was receiving a picture message. The image loaded from top to bottom slowly, and my eyes widened. Our office had horrible cell reception; I often joked it was stuck in the Bermuda Triangle. Watching the percentage scroll from seven to one hundred was a painstaking tease until it finally revealed a headshot of a man; studying his features, he was hot. Smokin’ hot. He had short black hair, dark eyes, and a five o'clock shadow. The words beneath the picture caused me to bite my lip at his sarcasm.
See? No Chihuahua here.
I smirked and pecked a message.
And how do I know you didn't surf the net for a picture?
Beep.
A skeptic. Your boyfriend or husband must’ve screwed you over royally.
I let the truthful words sting for a second as another picture almost immediately began to download. The same man was holding a piece of paper with words scribbled in sloppy black writing.
See? No Chihuahua or blue hair here.
Glancing at the clock in the image, it was eleven in the morning. The digital display on my desk matched the time. Mr. Lawton would be stopping by to check on me soon. With a sigh, I typed my last message.
Well, Abe. I should get to work.
The reply?
Enjoy your day, wrong number girl.
The morning bled into the afternoon, and my time was spent whittling away at the pile on my desk. Oddly, I found myself checking the cell phone for messages from the mystery man, Abe.
They didn't materialize.
* * *
After a long day that ended with a fight to get a ridiculous two-dollar claim paid, I went home and called Madeline, inviting her over for dinner. While I was still on the phone with her, she bounced through the doorway, not bothering to knock. "Anxious much?" I glared, pulling the cell away from my ear.
“I’m starving, and I really don't feel like grocery shopping." She lifted her frame until she was sitting on the counter. “In other words, I was hoping you’d call.”
"Are you some kind of robot? Haven't you been up since four in the morning?" I rolled my eyes.
"Yeah, but I've had two triple shot espressos and an iced coffee…maybe two.” Her words flowed quickly as she popped a piece of lettuce in her mouth. “The guy compensating for his dick with his giga
nto lifted truck tipped me one hundred bucks today.”
“Mr. Fuck Truck?” I laughed every time Madeline brought him up.
My phone buzzed, startling me as the box of rotini noodles slid from my fingertips. "Can you check that?” I crouched down to pick up the pasta that’d scattered across the floor. “My dad’s supposed to text me about meeting up with him on Sunday.”
“We both know he’s not going to call, and I wish the sperm donor’d leave you alone. He only contacts you when he needs something.” She reached over and snagged my phone from the counter, flipping it open. "Who. Is. This?" She arched an eyebrow.
Suddenly, the morning came flooding back to me—a slap to the face. In turn, I dropped the box of noodles for a second time, bits of uncooked pasta exploding across the linoleum. "Give me the phone." I lunged, slipping on the ground like a cartoon character.
"Grabby. Grabby." She lifted the phone high over her head and looked at the screen. "He's cute, Beck. Like really cute."
I jumped like a child, trying to reach the phone that was clearly out of my reach.
"Who is he?" she asked again.
"His name’s Abe, and he’s bad decision," I growled, swatting at the air.
"Abe’s a babe.” She paused and smiled. “I like this…you’re branching out. Well, if you retire him, I'll make him my bad decision."
"He's not mine to retire.” I leapt for the phone again.
"So you won't mind if I text him back?"
"Not at all." I shook my head and crossed my arms. Nervousness filled me as I watched her peck at the keys before closing my phone.
Not uttering a word, she set it on the counter gingerly.
"What…what did you say?" I asked, trying to remain nonchalant.
"You don't care. Remember?"
I succeeded in letting three long seconds pass before I dove for the cell. Eyeing the screen, I squealed. "Mads!"
“What?” she asked.
I scrunched my eyes shut, the words running through my head.
Naughty Bedtime Stories: First Taste Page 8