Aim Assist (Guy In Real Life #2)

1. ​Amy

Amy

It isn't often that I spend my time wondering if there's a life to be had outside of pets and video games, but sometimes— sometimes , you understand—I think that maybe I should try it.

You know, get glammed up for something other than a camera. Put on my fuck-me heels. Shimmy my hips into clothes that aren't exactly made for women with a little jiggle in their wiggle.

And then I end up dating a guy who turns out to be a raging asshole and remember why I stick with fictional men in video games.

I might have a slight obsessive crush over men in full tactical gear and a skeleton mask—thank you, viral trends on social media for introducing me to the joy of men cosplaying my favorite characters from Shadow Ops—but I've learned that most of them aren't worth my time or energy. Sexy bodies? Check. Ability to empathize with people outside of their phone screen? Big fat X.

Fucking dickwads. Every single one of them. They only care about how many reactions their next post gets, thinking they're the next viral sensation.

And some of them are, in fact, a sensation… online.

In person? Not so much. Never fall for those online personas. They're all fucking liars.

Even me.

Anyone who knows my online persona, AmYDeadYet, will see me in full make-up, with my pink-and-teal gaming setup and an entire line of retro-style dresses that I wear at any time of year.

It's my schtick. I like it, and so do a lot of others. Granted, there are haters— so many haters. You don't want to know what my inbox looks like.

The haters drive up comment traffic, though. And my fans seem to have a fun time fighting with them, so I leave it alone as long as it's not going too far. There are an entire sub-sect of humans that despise how a girl who likes girly aesthetic might actually play a first-person shooter.

Shocker, we exist.

I'm here to normalize that.

But what they don't know is that, when I'm not on video, I'm wearing some loose, silky pajama pants I bought online and giant t-shirts I've appropriated over time from my exes. My hair might , on a good day, be tossed into a messy bun. And I'm usually covered in fur.

Covered in it.

Did I mention the dog grooming? No? Well, I do that, too. With all my social influencer cash, I invested in a dog grooming company. The business is barking.

Sorry, inside joke. You know—dogs. Barking.

Anyway. The point is, the relationships might be over, but there's no reason to throw away a perfectly good shirt. I'm not about to buy new ones just to make some kind of point.

Even if I'm cutting up the one I was wearing yesterday, before my ex-boyfriend turned into a cheating, tiny-dicked, muscle-bound fuckwit.

Every so often, my temper takes over. So sue me.

Or, you know, don't. I don't have any lawyers on retainer.

"Amy?"

The cautious tone of my best friend is loud in my ear, thanks to the brand-new (and sponsored, hello free stuff!) earbuds. I'm not a huge fan of the latency, despite being marketed as a low-latency gaming earbud, but it's comfortable. Solid four stars out of five.

"What?" My snippy tone is unwarranted, and I know that as well as I know my own name—but damn it, Sam had to go off and get all cozy with her sexy new neighbor, and it made me lonely .

For half a year .

That's a long time in the era of Best Friends Forever. We've been each other's ride or die since 8th grade.

In the end, in my hormone-induced desperation, I hooked up with a guy who'd been sweet, sexy, and checked all the right boxes, straight off my favorite app. He followed me first; I followed him back. His feed is filled with videos of himself dressed as Phantom, complete with the skeleton mask and the bulging muscles. My feed is filled with the glamorous version of me shooting strangers in video games.

We got along like peanut butter and fucking jelly.

And now, three months later, I'm single and cutting his shirt into tiny little strips that I'm going to braid into a tug-of-war toy for my puppy (which was also a Sam got a boyfriend and I got lonely impulsive life choice).

The dog was a much better choice than hooking up with Paul Manslut Smitherton or whatever the fuck his name was. It was something stupid.

Smithington?

Fuck. I dated the guy for three months and can't remember his real name. Only his stupid username—PaulWickOSOK.

He thought he was so cool. "Paul Wick, One Shot, One Kill". He didn't even have the skills to back up his ego.

All muscles. No brain. No skill.

I should have known from his K/D that we wouldn't be a good match. (That's short for kill to death ratio, for you degenerates who have yet to pick up a controller and join the wild side.) Paul's was so close to zero that it may as well have been x on the Cartesian plane.

It only makes things worse when I admit the sex was subpar. The man couldn't find a clit if it had a flashing neon sign.

All that buildup! For 3 months! For what? A roll between the sheets that was more like an unwanted workout than a sexy explosion of fireworks and fantasy.

Look, I'm not terrible. If I like the guy, I can handle bad sex. I've done it before. I'll do it again.

But not when the guy's bad at it and cheats on me with Sticky Stickerton, with her flat stomach and twiggy legs and no ass.

Yes, she's pretty. Of course she's pretty. She's gorgeous, and now I hate her.

Her boyfriend's shirts must hang off her like a fucking flag on a pole. Mine are usually a little tight, showing off a few too many rolls.

Look, it's math, okay? A man's XL is not that far off from a woman's XL. It's impossible. Maybe a 5XL would give me that cute, "Oooh, I'm wearing my boyfriend's shirt" look that people think of—but it isn't like anyone ever sees me in my home clothes.

Even my boyfriends have only ever seen the me that's ready to present to the world.

"… Amy! "

Shit, Sam's been talking the entire time, and I'd zoned right the fuck out of the conversation.

The shirt's all in strips now, though, so at least I was productive.

"Sorry, Sam. I got distracted. What were you saying?"

A long sigh whooshes through my earbud, riding the guilt train straight into my heart. "Okay, Max is right."

"Max?" The fuck is my brother suddenly doing in our conversation?

"Amy. What is going on? You weren't even that into him, and you're acting like a complete nut job."

"Excuse me. I'm capable of feeling hurt when I get cheated on, you know." There's way too much to unpack behind her words, so I do something I'm great at—I deflect.

Deflect. Deny. Change the subject. Sweep it under a rug.

I'm the queen of it all. Feelings are too much work for me.

There's a deep voice in the background, talking to Sam, and jealousy rears its ugly little head. We've been best friends for fifteen years.

It's been a year since she started dating Asher, and nine months since he proposed. Wedding planning was postponed when the pregnancy test popped a positive. Now, they have a cute little bundle of joy that keeps her up all night. Two entire humans that keep her away from me.

I can't even see her at work, because she's on maternity leave.

Maternity leave . We aren't old enough to have kids.

Wait—I can feel you flipping back through book one to double check. Yes , we are legal age.

But motherhood is… big.

Life-changing.

Responsibility .

It feels so early for all of this shit to have taken my bestie away.

Ooey-gooey baby sounds come from Sam's speaker, before she finally talks again. "Amy, you know that's not what I meant, and I know you know that."

Yeah. I know.

But I say nothing. Instead, I cut random wiggles and squiggles from one of the shirt scraps.

On the few occasions there's an emotional confrontation in my life, I fiddle.

It's what I do.

"There's something more going on. What is it?"

The understanding in her voice, that soft tone that I've grown up with through all my hardest years, brings the suggestion of tears to my eyes.

But I blink a few times, and it disappears, as though recognizing that crying isn't accepted here.

"Everything's fine, Sam." A cold nose pokes at my ankle. My little Pomeranian puppy is engrossed in licking lotion off my skin, and I shoe her away with my foot and high-pitched noise.

She comes right back, thinking it's time for a tug of war with my toes.

Two pairs of shoes have already been murdered by the vicious little beastie. Puppies are a menace.

"No, it's not. You need to talk about this. It's not healthy to bottle things up like you do. Come on. We can have a girl's night."

"You can't drink," I remind her.

She groans. "Don't get me started. I was involved in a 2-hour argument online about whether we can drink and breastfeed. It sounds like I can, but then there's the people who tell me I'm going to hell if I do. Honestly, it's like I can't do anything right."

Perfect; she's heading down a new line of conversation. "Oh? I thought it would be a pretty clear no." Leaning over, I grab the tiny pup and head for the back door, listening as Sam laments in my ear about the drama of online mom groups.