Chapter Thirty-Two
Blade
Unknown caller: I’m fat.
For two seconds, I stared at the fucking text. Then instead of blocking this bullshit, I asininely texted back.
Me: Wrong number.
The dots appeared immediately, followed by another text.
Unknown caller: Did you change your number? Get a new phone?
Me: No .
Unknown caller: Then ha! Nice try. AND OMG WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? Wait! Never mind! I told myself I wouldn’t do that if you replied. NEW DAY. REDO. Whatever. HI! HELLO! I MISS YOU! And I just ate a whole bag of chips, and now I’m fat. And don’t think I didn’t notice that it’s a fat text that you finally responded to!
If this was the kind of shit this asshole was texting, no wonder they didn’t get a response. Not that I gave a fuck. My thumb was hovering over Delete when another text came in.
Unknown caller: Oh no you don’t. I know you saw the text. Now you have to respond. In case you forgot, that’s how it works. I text, you text back.
Un-fucking-believable.
Me: You’re telling me what to do?
Unknown caller: Obviously!
Unknown caller: And I’m waiting.
Christ. This chick, or whoever the hell was texting, was out of their mind. So was I because I fucking responded.
Me: What kind of chips?
Unknown caller: Is that a trick question?
Me: No.
Unknown caller: What kind do you think? The only kind of chips. Lay’s. Original. But that’s not the problem. My ass is. I now have chip ass. Which I’ll keep talking about since you aren’t responding to ANYTHING ELSE.
Me: Chip ass.
Unknown caller: Yes, chip ass! Am I talking to myself? Are you even listening?
Me: Yes. No.
Unknown caller: Seriously?
Me: Deadly.
Logging into AES servers, I ran a quick trace on the phone. Two seconds later, I got an error message. More than curious now, I switched over to November’s proprietary software and initiated a full search on the cell.
The crazy texter, who was definitely a woman, was already at it again before I’d finished typing.
Unknown caller: Geez. Who pissed in your Cheerios today? You know what, never mind. I don’t care. You aren’t taking my chip ass seriously or even asking why I ate the whole bag in the first place when I swore off chips for one year and didn’t even make it a month. Okay, a week. Whatever. Don’t mind me, I’ll just be over here with my chip ass and catastrophic problems and no emotional support while you’re off saving the world.
Off saving the world?
Unknown caller: And for the record, I had to go to the convenience store for those chips, so I feel extra gross. And dirty. And the bag was, like, a day away from the expiration date and had fingerprints all over it because no self-respecting human actually buys the large size bag of Lay’s from a 7-11 for triple the grocery store price at 11 a.m. on a THURSDAY. Not unless you’re insane. Or in catastrophe denial mode. So yeah. Now I’m dirty, pathetic, AND have chip ass. It’s like high school all over again… okay, I couldn’t afford Lay’s brand in high school. I still can’t. Whatever. Omfg, I AM a loser. With chip ass.
Waiting for the search results, I texted back.
Me: Okay.
A memory of tits, ass, and attitude came back. How many people used the fucking phrase off saving the world ?
Unknown caller: OKAY?! WTH?
The expanded search came back inconclusive. No address, no geo location. No account activated with the number, period.
Me: Did I stutter?
Wracking my brain, trying to remember a fucking cell number from two years ago, I ran the trace again.
Unknown caller: Did you… OMG. I knew it! Charlie, you jerk. Give my bestie her phone back. And for the record, I’m mad at you for stealing her away.
What. The. FUCK?
Charlie? Goddamn Charlie?
Waiting for the trace, adrenaline now pumping, I fired off a response.
Me: Not Charlie.
The same results came back on the trace. Nothing. I fucking ran it again.
Unknown caller: Yeah. Sure. Whatever, McMoose.
Aiming to keep the texts coming, I fucking replied again.
Me: McMoose?
Unknown caller: Oh, I’m sorry, am I offending you and your ‘Did I stutter?’ self now? Go be a McHorse or McHorse’s ass somewhere else.
Unknown caller: And give my bestie her phone back.
The last trace came through exactly like the others. No intel. I didn’t know what the fuck was going on, but after this morning, after two goddamn years, something was up.
Me: Who’s Charlie?
Unknown caller: GOOD question. You tell me! It’s not like I ever met you. Just give Reena her phone back. Please. There, I asked nicely.
The adrenaline crested, then took a fucking dive. Reena. Not Summer.
Goddamn it.
I tried one more time.
Me: You don’t know a Charlie?
Unknown caller: A Charlie? Is that like A dog or A moose or A horse? No, I don’t know YOU or any other Charlie for that matter. Not that it’s any of your business. May I please speak to Reena now?
I grabbed my AES cell and called November.
He answered before the first ring. “Blade.”
“When you onboarded me two years ago, I asked you to run two cell numbers. You don’t happen to have a record of those, do you?”
“I can access the data storage. It’ll take a minute. Hold.” The line went quiet.
I reread all the texts.
November came back exactly a minute later because it was fucking November. “Texting the numbers to you now. Anything I need to know about?”
“No. Thanks.” I hung up and dialed the first number.
Not in service.
I dialed the second.
Not in service.
I sent a text from my burner.
Me: Like I said, wrong number.
Unknown caller: Whatever.
Fucking Christ. Changing into my running clothes, I headed downstairs and did a grueling five miles in the goddamn heat because I’d bypassed my run this morning to hit up AES. Every mile I thought about the call, the texter, Ghost, Alpha, Phoenix, and this whole fucked-up day.
When I got back to my place, I had more questions than answers and another fucking text.
Unknown caller: I’ve graduated.
Dripping sweat, I replied.
Me: Congratulations.
Unknown caller: Hmph. Graduated to ice cream. Chunky Monkey. I thought the name was befitting. Also, the 7-11 store clerk now knows I’m a loser. Or possibly thinks I’m a stoner. I may or may not have also bought pickles at the same time. And no, I am not pregnant, before you ask. Not that you’d care. You didn’t even care about my chip ass. That’s also graduated, too, btw. I’m now a double-wide. An entire bag of salty deliciousness followed by a pint of Chunky Monkey. I’m on a roll. No, I AM a roll.
WTF was Chunky Monkey? Did this chick have a fucking job?
Me: Shouldn’t you be at work?
Unknown caller: WFH day.
Me: Okay.
Whatever the fuck WFH was.
Unknown caller: Omg not this again. For real? Okay? You leave me in a cloud of dust and that’s all I get?
Cloud of dust?
Me: You got chips and ice cream.
Unknown caller: No shit! And pickles. Which I’m almost done with. Which also means I’m going to have to pull my Uggs back on and take my sorry chip ass back to the store of shame. And yes, I’m wearing my nasty old Uggs in the insane ninety-degree heat with matching humidity because that’s what happens when you don’t keep up with your pedicures. Whatever.
Unknown caller: Also, don’t think I didn’t notice you avoided my last statement. And if this is Charlie again, stop answering Reena’s phone!
My thumbs hovering, I hesitated.
Then I went to contacts and quickly typed.
Another text came in, this time with the new name I’d programmed.
Crazy Chick: Of course you have no response for that.
Out of my fucking head for not shutting this down, I typed back.
Me: What response were you expecting?
The dots appeared, then disappeared. A full minute later, another text came through.
Crazy Chick: Okay, now this is weird. You don’t sound like yourself or Charlie. Not that I know him, or you, whatever, but still. What’s going on?
Me: What number do you think you’re texting?
Crazy Chick: Your number, of course.
Fuck this.
Me: Last time. Wrong number.
The dots came and cycled through their pattern for fifteen seconds.
Crazy Chick: Reena?
Me: Not Reena.
Crazy Chick: I just looked it up. The cell phone company recycles unused numbers every 45 to 90 days. If this number was recycled, then how come you’re only now saying wrong number? I’ve been texting this whole time.
She wasn’t only crazy, she was a stalker. I should’ve fucking blocked her. Or asked how the hell she’d gotten this number right before I told her to check her shit.
Instead, I aimed for different intel.
Me: What’s Reena saving the world from?
If I got any other answer than nurse, I was out.
The message switched from blue to green, and a red Not Delivered appeared.