Chapter 1 #3
Unknown Number: You’re at Club 88? I have a membership there. They’re better than any club in the city.
Unknown Number: Is that you? With the red hair? I can’t tell.
Me: Yes, that’s me.
Unknown Number: I’ve always loved redheads.
My cheeks heat, knowing that he’s flirting, testing the waters. I stare at the screen, not knowing what to say when my phone vibrates again.
Unknown Number: What’s your friend doing?
Me: She’s asking people to send me money for my birthday. She’s a great saleswoman. We already have over 1000 bucks!
Unknown Number: Of course you do. You’re beautiful and it’s your birthday. You’re going to bring in a ton of money. What’s the QR code? I’ll send some too.
Me: You don’t have to do that.
Unknown Number: I want to. My Miss Wrong Number should have the greatest night of her life tonight.
Me: And thank you for calling me beautiful. Even though you can’t see my face.
Unknown Number: I don’t have to see your face to know you’re beautiful.
My mouth opens in shock. He doesn’t know anything about me. He doesn’t know…me. I could be talking to a guy who’s seventy years old or a guy who wants to murder me.
I probably should have asked him that first. On the other hand, a guy planning to kill me wouldn’t tell me he was going to kill me.
Fuck it.
Me: Here’s the QR code! But you don’t have to send anything. No pressure.
I tuck my phone away and get lost in the music. The conversation with Mr. Wrong Number is probably over.
“We made it to three thousand dollars! Oh my god!” Vic shouts into my ear, showing me the total on her phone. “And another hundred just came through. He left a note that says, ‘Have fun tonight. Be safe. Drinks on me. —Mr. Wrong Number.’”
I’m shocked. He actually did it. I thought maybe a few bucks, but one hundred dollars? For someone he doesn’t know. That’s crazy.
“Who is Mr. Wrong Number?” Vic asks.
I look around for Amber, wanting to be saved from admitting the truth, when I see her making out with a guy on the dance floor while another guy is dancing behind her, arms wrapped around her waist.
Good for her.
“Uh—well—I—”
Victoria guesses, “You tried to message your ex.”
I sigh, finishing off my champagne without saying a word to her.
She rolls her eyes. “At least the universe was on our side. We appreciate Mr. Wrong Number. Tell him thank you. Next birthday, I’m taking your damn phone!”
“Fine!” I shout over the loud change in music. “Now, stop hustling people for money and have a good time.”
“Deal.” She tucks her phone away and snags the nearest guy to dance with.
I wish I were that confident.
Instead, in the middle of the dance floor, I reach for my phone, because I’m more interested in Mr. Wrong Number than anyone here.
Unknown Number: Sent. Let me buy you a drink. Have a good time. You aren’t driving, are you? If so, let me know. I know that’s weird since you don’t know me, but I wouldn’t feel right talking to someone who’s been drinking and not offering them a ride.
That’s really sweet.
Me: That’s so nice of you to offer. I promise, we’re good. We set up a ride to pick us up around 2.
Unknown Number: 2 in the morning? I could never. I can’t hang like that anymore. I’m too old.
If I had a drink, I would have choked on it. I knew it. The guy I’m talking to is old enough to be my great grandpa.
Me: Oh, please. How old are you? Please, don’t say 80.
Unknown Number: HAHA, no. Some days it feels that way, but I’m 43. I’m not some old creep, promise.
Me: Well, that’s a relief. I would have felt bad for keeping grandpa up so late.
I head to the VIP couch, needing a break from the chaos of the dance floor.
My head is spinning and I might need to leave earlier than intended.
I’ve had so many glasses of champagne, I’ve lost count.
Dr. Warrick might die when he pays the bill because it was not cheap bubbly; it was the best champagne money could buy.
I squeeze my eyes closed, the room spinning too much for me to have a coherent thought. I don’t know if I can make it down the steps to go outside.
“Oh my god, I’m exhausted, and I’ve had too much to drink.” Vic drops onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling with a groan.
“Same and my feet are killing me,” Amber says.
“Maybe we should go?” I suggest. “I can reschedule the ride. They can get us now. The room is spinning for me and if it keeps spinning, I might throw up.”
They nod in agreement and it takes all I have to focus on the app to reschedule the ride. While we wait for the car to arrive, I chug some water to hopefully get a clearer head. I would like to remember how I got home when I wake up tomorrow with a giant headache.
I don’t have the energy to look at my phone anymore. Mr. Wrong Number will have to wait.
The girls and I are a giggling mess by the time we enter the car. The driver smiles, repeating my address back to me to make sure it’s correct.
When we get to my place, the girls hit the spare bedroom and disappear for the night. No one is interested in staying up any later than this.
I’m stumbling in my high heels, catching myself on the wall. The water I chugged, in fact, did not help, and I’m seeing three of everything. I kick my heels off in the dark and something shatters.
I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
I toss my purse on my bed, continuing to use the wall to guide me to the bathroom. The one thing I always do, no matter what, is wash my face.
Face clean, I strip off my clothes and fall into bed, staring up the ceiling fan, the blades multiplying. I take a few deep breaths and groan, hating that I forgot the headache medicine in the bathroom. There’s no way I’ll be able to get up again.
Oh, Mr. Wrong Number!
I reach for my phone, slapping a new spot on my bed five times before I feel my purse, dump the contents out, and snag my phone to see a message from him.
I decide to save the contact as Mr. Wrong Number.
Mr. Wrong Number: Ouch, your grandpa? That hurts. I’m not that old.
Mr. Wrong Number: Hope you’re okay.
Mr. Wrong Number: Now I do feel like a creep. Did you make it home? Are you still dancing? You have me a little worried. Do I need to come to Club 88 to check on you?
I’m not sure why I find him so endearing. I don’t know him, but for a guy who got a text from a wrong number, he sure is good at caring about someone he doesn’t know.
Me: I made it home alive. The room might be spinning. I hope I’m in the right house. That would be awkward.
Mr. Wrong Number: FINALLY. I was getting worried. You can’t scare an old man like that. I could have had a heart attack.
Me: Oh, you’re not even old.
Mr. Wrong Number: Tell that to my head full of gray hair.
I’ve never told anyone, but I’ve always had a thing for older men who have silver hair. Mature men are so much better than men my age. I like when a man knows what he wants and goes after it. Men my age play too many games.
Me: Prove it.
I don’t hit send. Suddenly, I’m sobering up at how this conversation has taken a turn.
I delete the message and instead, snap a photo with my face turned away.
When I look at the image, I debate if it’s something I want to send a stranger.
The left side of my body peeks out from under the sheets, the curve of my breast almost exposed.
Fuck it.
It’s my birthday.
I press send and add: Thanks for being one of the best parts of my night. It was good talking to you.
Mr. Wrong Number: Jesus Christ. You’re fucking beautiful.
Me: Am I giving an old man a heart attack?
Mr. Wrong Number: You’re giving me something.
A second later, a photo of him comes through, and my mouth waters. I’m suddenly very thirsty for him. A man I don’t know. A stranger. An older stranger.
A pulse begins to throb between my legs. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve had an orgasm. I swallow thickly, staring at the most beautiful man I have ever seen.
His body is built, lean, with dark coarse silver hair across his chest and stomach.
I love when a man has a lot of hair.
But what really makes me gasp is the thick cock he’s gripping through the sheets that are bundled low on his hips. He has carved hips with deep grooves, but my gaze is locked on his hands.
They are huge.
And the veins?
If he were here, I’d trace them with my tongue.
The photo is cut off at his face, and I zoom in, noticing the salt-and-pepper scruff on his neck. He wasn’t lying about being gray.
My hand slips down my body and in between my legs, and I find myself soaked and needy. I snap another picture, the alcohol buzzing in my veins; my rational thinking doesn’t give a damn, or I’d never do this.
Me: There is no way you look that good and there’s no way you’re that…thick.
Mr. Wrong Number: Want me to prove it?
I don’t hesitate. Even with one hand, my thumb flies over the keyboard.
Me: You better. I need something to finger fuck myself to.
Oh my god! Did I just send that?
I did. I might regret this in the morning.
I absolutely will regret this.
But right now, it’s all I can think about.
My ex could never make me orgasm, and I desperately need this.
One look at Mr. Wrong Number, and I can’t help myself.
I’m already close. I stare at his photo, imagining licking up those abs while straddling his waist. I wonder what his lips are like.
Are they thin and soft? Or plump and rough?
Does he kiss for the taking or to savor?
Mr. Wrong Number: I can’t believe I’m doing this. You’re making me feel like I’m in my 20s again. I don’t often send dick pictures.
Me: I don’t either. We can make each other feel good for a night—unless you don’t want to. No pressure at all.
Mr. Wrong Number: Are you kidding? Do you know how badly I want to be with you right now so you can wrap your hands around my cock? I bet your fingers couldn’t touch.
Me: Keep talking to me like that. Show me what I’m missing.
I reach for my nightstand, deciding I need more than my fingers. I pull out a thick purple dildo, wishing it was replaced with Mr. Wrong Number. I’m so wet, I don’t need any lubricant. I moan, loving how the stretch slightly burns.
I whimper, angling the dildo in a way that hits that spot inside me.
Mr. Wrong Number: This, you mean?
A second later, a video pops up, and all I have to do is press play, but I already know what I’m about to watch.
I fuck myself faster with the dildo, biting my bottom lip as I watch him fuck his fist. He’s right—there’s no way my hand would fit around that beast. He’s huge, with a wide tip and a vein that I so badly want to lick. His moans echo in the background and I wish I could see his face.
Mr. Wrong Number: Is this what you wanted? You better be touching yourself to me. You better wish it was me fucking you right now. You wouldn’t be able to get away from me. I’d fuck you hard, so you feel me for days, so you know that ache was caused by me and only me.
I press record, sending him a video of me fucking myself on the dildo. I don’t make a show of it; I just do what I usually do. I gasp and moan, fucking myself fast, the way I like it.
And then I press send.