Chapter 2
OLIVIA
Oh my god.
My head hurts. No, it’s beyond that. It’s throbbing. It’s killing me. I don’t think I’ll be able to get out of bed without throwing up all over my floor. I groan, tossing my arm over my eyes as I let my body adjust to unfortunately being awake.
This. This feeling right here. This is why I no longer go out, because I don’t know the stopping point. There’s no middle ground for me. When I drink, I’m fine, and then I’m not.
I turn over, moaning in pain when it feels like my brain is slamming against the side of my skull. I’m never drinking again. Ever.
Closing my eyes, I try to fall asleep again. When I lift my arm, it smacks against something near me, and I peek one eye open to see what it is.
“Go me,” I grumble when I see the purple dildo.
No wonder I feel a little sore.
My phone buzzes from somewhere in my bed and I groan, not wanting to answer it. Patting the bed half-heartedly, I try to find it. But I don’t really want to find it. All I want to do is go back to bed. Finally snagging my phone, I rub my eyes and turn down the brightness on the screen.
Mr. Wrong Number: How are you feeling this morning?
“What?” The screen is blurring.
Forcing myself to sit up, I yawn, snag the water bottle from my nightstand, and guzzle it down until there’s nothing left.
“Ugh, I am never going to that club again.”
I hear a knock on the door before it opens—it’s Vic and Amber. I would laugh at how ridiculous they look if I had the energy. Victoria’s hair is still up as if she’s been electrocuted and Amber’s makeup is so smeared, it looks like she cried herself to sleep.
“How are you walking?” I rasp, wishing I had more water.
“Am I?” Vic stumbles, catching herself on the doorframe. “I think I’m still drunk.”
“Me too,” Amber echoes. “We ordered coffee. Got your caramel whatever you like. It’s delivered outside the door.”
“You guys are so sweet. Thank you. That sounds fantastic.”
“I don’t know if I can make it to the door.” Victoria covers her mouth with her hand. “Amber, can you get them? I need to—” She runs back to the guest room and slams the door.
I wince, not wanting to think about what she’s doing, because I’m not that far behind.
“I’ll be back.” Amber hobbles away and I roll my lips together to keep from laughing when I see she’s only wearing one high heel. She must have slept in her clothes.
Which has me looking down, because I realize I’m naked and Victoria and Amber just saw everything. Not that they haven’t before; we’ve been friends too long to have any secrets.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, holding out my arms while the world spins.
“I’m too old to be drinking like this. Twenty-six is the last birthday for which this much champagne will be drank.
Never. Again.” I take small steps to the bathroom, not wanting to walk too fast and risk it all.
I groan and gripe all the way there, do my business, then wash my hands and face.
The chilly water against my skin helps wake me up, and I brush my teeth to get the grime of so many bad choices off my tongue.
Slumping, I snag my robe off the hook, wrap it around myself, and Amber takes that moment to hold out my coffee as I’m walking back to bed.
The warmth of the cup seeps into my palm and that alone is enough to make me sigh in contentment. “Thank you so much. I appreciate you guys going out with me. It was a good time. Too many bottles of champagne, but a good time.”
“You have almost four thousand dollars that people sent you.”
I almost spit out my coffee. “What? I remember…” I pinch my brows together. “When it hit two thousand? Maybe? Vic really worked her ass off.”
“Consider it your birthday gift. We can go shopping.”
I’m too responsible to go shopping. I always either save money or pay it toward bills. I have a small amount of credit card debt, nothing too worrisome, but I also have a few student loans, and that four thousand would really help decrease the amount I owe.
But Amber and Victoria deserve to spend this money too after they worked the entire club for it last night.
I suggest, “Maybe another day? When my head isn’t banging drums against my skull?”
Amber quickly agrees. “Oh, yeah. Not today. I’m not leaving this apartment. No way could I handle the brightness of the sun. I’m going to drink this coffee and go to back to bed.”
“My apartment is your apartment. I also don’t plan on leaving it today.” I hiccup, then groan in frustration. “I hate the hiccups. How many bottles did we have last night?”
“I lost count?” Amber says, scratching the side of her head. “Don’t make me think too hard.”
I lean against the headboard and set my coffee on the nightstand. “Deal. I plan to go to sleep again soon, then food.”
Amber shakes her head, covering her mouth with her hand like Victoria did. “Don’t even bring up food. I can’t.” She darts away, running to the guest room.
Taking a sip of coffee, I blow out a breath and check my phone again, remembering Mr. Wrong Number popping up on my phone.
Whoever that is. I don’t remember exchanging phone numbers with anyone.
Opening the message as I take a sip, I spew coffee everywhere when I see our texts back and forth.
“Oh my god. No. No. No. No. I did not do this. I didn’t do this. Did I? I did. Oh god.” I keep scrolling, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment at what I was sexting this stranger.
A stranger!
I sent him videos of me fucking myself. He sent me videos of him.
I tilt my head when I open one of the videos and press play. “Oh.”
He has a very thick cock. The kind I’ve always wanted my partners to have.
I peer up from my phone to see if the girls are in the living room, but they aren’t.
I turn the volume up just enough so I can hear his groans, the way his skin sounds as he strokes himself, the way he gasps and groans for me.
Me.
Someone he doesn’t even know.
“You’d like this cock, wouldn’t you? I wouldn’t be gentle. I would pound into you as I grip your hips. You’d beg me to stop but beg for more. You’d scream for me. Is that what you want?”
I swallow, suddenly warm in my robe. I fan myself after listening to him.
I click on another video and this time, he’s fucking his fist faster, harder, whispering things like, “I wish I could fill that tight cunt of yours. You’d take it too. You’d take every drop because you’d beg for it, wouldn’t you?”
My memories from last night crashing in on me, I now remember very vividly all of the words he and I exchanged.
It was hot.
He was hot. Those tattoo sleeves on his arms? No one should be allowed to look that good with that pretty of a cock.
And I don’t care that I have no idea what he looks like. I think this is exactly what I need. He’s fun, and not knowing what he looks like gives me a chance to get to know the real him. Nothing will happen between us. What are the chances? He might not even live in the city.
A small pang hurts my chest at that thought. It would suck if we decided we ever wanted to meet. I put my phone down, needing a breather. How could this have happened? This could have been a conversation with my ex if I really think about it.
The thought alone makes my stomach turn. It’s a good thing I texted the wrong number. The universe has my back in some weird way.
Another message pops up from Mr. Wrong Number, so I finally hit the down arrow to see what he has to say.
Mr. Wrong Number: How are you feeling this morning?
Mr. Wrong Number: Uh, I understand if you don’t want to talk to me anymore.
I know last night was wild. I had never done anything like that before.
I know, shocking given my old age, but talking to you has been the best part of my week.
Anyway, I wanted to say that you have nothing to worry about.
I wouldn’t ever share these messages with anyone or post them anywhere.
I’m not that kind of man. I’m going to delete them.
I wouldn’t ever want you to worry about that.
This message is so long, but anyway, I hope you’re feeling better.
Happy birthday, Miss Wrong Number. Take care of yourself.
I stare at his message, feeling slightly panicked that he no longer wants to talk. I know I haven’t messaged him back yet, but I’m trying to figure out what to say. I was so outside of myself yesterday and to wake up remembering that I sexted a stranger is a lot to wrap my head around.
I don’t regret it, though. I don’t regret him.
Mr. Wrong Number: God, I’m a fucking creep, aren’t I? I’m 43 years old and you’re 26. I had no business texting you those things, those words, those videos.
The one of him coming all over his stomach is my favorite.
My phone vibrates again.
Mr. Wrong Number: Okay, I promise, I’m done blowing up your phone. I’m so sorry.
I finally blink away the confusion and embarrassment and text him back.
Me: Don’t apologize. We did nothing wrong. We’re two grown adults. I don’t mind the age difference, but you do. If anyone is the guilty party here, it’s me. I’m the one who started it, but I’m not sorry it happened. I liked it. I like talking to you.
Mr. Wrong Number: I don’t regret it either, but a 17-year age gap? I could be your father, technically.
Me: But you’re not.
Mr. Wrong Number: But I could be.
Me: No, you really couldn’t. If you want to delete my number, I’ll delete yours and we can move on with our lives, but I really hope that doesn’t happen. I had a great time last night.
A knock at the front door interrupts me even though my stomach is in knots. I want to clear this up with my new…friend? Stranger? Acquaintance? Friends with benefits? We don’t know each other enough for any kind of label.
I shake my head when the room spins and at the same time my stomach grumbles. Peeping through the hole in the door, I see my mom, and suddenly, my stomach eases.
I could talk to her about this if I wanted to. My mom is my best friend. She’s the least judgmental person I know. A part of me wants to keep Mr. Wrong Number to myself, though. He’s too new and too hard to explain.
And a little bit of an accident. And now that I think of it, I’m not sure if my mom would be cool about it or go into mother mode.
Swinging the door open, I can barely muster the energy to smile.
“Good lord, Liv. You look like roadkill.”
“It’s so good to see you too, Mom. I’m doing well. Thank you for asking.”
“I don’t need to ask to know. You look terrible. Fun night?” She pushes herself into the apartment, noticing the string of shoes scattered across the living room floor like breadcrumbs. “The girls are here too?”
I nod, sitting down on a barstool. “It was a really fun night. Drank a little too much. They’re sleeping it off.”
“Well, you go rest, but shower first. You smell.”
I gasp. “Mom! That is so rude.”
“What? You do. I wouldn’t be a good mother if I didn’t tell you the truth. I can smell the alcohol from here. Now, go. I’ll start making your favorite. Tomato soup and grilled cheese.”
I know it’s a toddler’s favorite meal, but something about it is so comforting. “Thanks for coming over, Mom. You always know when I need you.”
She places her hands on her hips, looking sassy in her short frame. I’m built just like her. Her red hair is fading into blonde with age, which I try hard not to think about. She has a few wrinkles around her eyes and exhaustion in her face that I haven’t really noticed before.
“You always need me,” she says.
“You aren’t wrong.” I slide off the stool and head for my bedroom to take a shower. “Hey, Mom?”
She doesn’t lift her head as she begins to chop the tomatoes. “Yeah, sweetie?”
“Are you okay?”
Finally, she raises her head, frowning at the question. “Of course I am. Why?”
I shrug my shoulder, not knowing how to explain what I’m feeling. “You’d tell me if anything was wrong, right?”
Her gaze softens. “I always do.”
She’s still not telling me. She isn’t ready to talk. When she is, I’ll be here.
I slip into the hot shower, loving how good the hot water feels sliding over my skin. I’m not sure how long I stay in there, but my fingers and toes become prunes, steam is heavy, and the water begins to turn cold.
Drying off and getting dressed into sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, I check my phone to see if Mr. Wrong Number has texted me back.
Nothing.
“Oh, well.” I toss my phone onto the bed, not wanting to overthink the happy accident of messaging him.
Even as I walk into the delicious-smelling kitchen, I hate to admit that he is all I can think about. I don’t think much of our age difference. We’re both adults. That’s all that matters to me.
What’s a seventeen-year age gap if someone makes you happy?
Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I’m too positive about things?
Maybe happiness is hard, and not as simple as I make it out to be in my head.