Chapter 17 Someone Better Mop the Floor
SOMEONE BETTER MOP THE FLOOR
IZZY
Amanda and I stumble into the bar, already cackling, the neon glow buzzing around us.
The place is packed with Friday night revelers, bodies pressed close in that familiar weekend ritual of escape and celebration.
Music thumps hard enough to rattle the ice in my drink, vibrating through the floor and up into my bones.
The bass line provides a steady backdrop to conversations that grow louder as the night progresses, everyone competing to be heard over the noise.
Amanda, ever the professional bad influence, orders us a pitcher to start. Her credit card slaps onto the sticky bar top. The bartender—bearded, tattooed, and clearly appreciative of Amanda's low-cut top—nods and gets to work, lime juice splashing, ice crackling in the blender.
And that's how I find myself—one oversized margarita deep, salt crusting on my lips, tequila warming my veins like liquid courage—confessing something to her that I probably shouldn't. The alcohol loosens my tongue, washing away inhibitions I normally keep firmly in place.
"I haven't had sex with Evan in... a while." The admission slips out between sips, surprising even me with its candor.
Amanda, mid-sip, practically lights up like a human firework. Her eyes widen comically, margarita frozen halfway to her mouth. "Define 'a while.'"
I wave my hand vaguely, the motion sending my drink tipping dangerously close to the rim. "Long enough that I have zero desire to start again." The words feel surprisingly freeing, as though naming this truth aloud has released something long trapped inside me.
Amanda gasps like I just told her I renounced men altogether. Her perfectly glossed mouth forms a dramatic 'O' of shock. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"I'm saying that if he tries to touch me, I feel actively repulsed." I take another gulp of my drink, staring at the salt rim like it holds answers to questions I'm just beginning to ask myself. The tequila burns pleasantly down my throat, warming my chest. "Like, full-body cringe."
Amanda slaps the table so hard that our drinks jump, droplets of margarita splashing onto the worn wooden surface. "YES. Welcome to your feminist awakening!"
I snort, nearly choking on my drink. The carbonation bubbles up my nose, making my eyes water. "That's not—"
"No, listen." She points at me like she's about to deliver a life-altering TED Talk, her finger hovering inches from my face.
"You're realizing you don't need a man to get you off.
You've been choosing yourself over his mediocre dick.
That is growth. That is power. That is breaking free from the patriarchy. "
I laugh, pressing a hand to my forehead, feeling the flush of alcohol warming my skin. "I am not breaking free from the patriarchy."
"Yet." She swirls her margarita, the pale green liquid creating a small whirlpool in the glass. Ice cubes clink musically against each other. "We just need to get you a rubber boyfriend and you're golden."
I choke, margarita going down the wrong way. "Oh my God." My voice comes out strangled, half-laugh, half-cough.
"Speaking of," she purrs, leaning in, her blonde hair falling forward. "You did name-drop the app earlier. Why?"
I hesitate, debating if I should even ask. The alcohol makes me bold, but some questions still feel too embarrassing.
Amanda eyes already gleam with anticipation. "Yessss?"
Screw it. "The app," I start, trying to sound casual but feeling my cheeks heat. "You said it... integrates?"
Amanda's eyes go wide, like I just said something deeply scandalous. Her expression shifts to one of delighted conspiracy. "Oh, babe." She nods, solemn. "Yeah. But you have to pay for the premium version."
I process this information. The rim of my glass leaves a wet circle on the table as I set it down. "There's a premium version?"
"Obviously." She grabs a chip, dunking it in guacamole with practiced precision. The crisp crunch as she bites into it punctuates her words. "The buy-in is $15 a month, and they mail you one that links with the app."
I nearly spit out my drink. "Shut up." My voice rises above the music, drawing a few glances from nearby tables.
"I'm serious." She chews, completely unfazed by my reaction. "If you're gonna be committed to your AI boyfriend, you might as well go all in."
I shake my head, half-laughing, half-mortified. The tequila swirls pleasantly through my system, making everything feel just a little bit tilted. "I might just do that."
Amanda perks up, leaning forward eagerly. "You should!"
We clink glasses, the sound bright and clear even amid the bar's chaos, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize how completely insane my life has become.
Amanda takes a sip, then shoots me a sultry look over the salt-crusted rim of her glass. "Alright, so tell me—how are things going with AI Callahan?"
I groan, sinking lower in my chair. "His name is Caleb."
She wiggles her brows suggestively, lipstick still somehow perfect despite the margaritas. "Mmmhmm. And how much does Caleb resemble a certain rugged, brooding, six-foot-plus slab of man?"
I look away, too quickly. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Amanda scoffs. "Izzy, you literally programmed him to be Callahan with a slightly different name."
"Fine. Yes. Maybe I did."
Amanda leans back, victorious. "I don't blame you. That man is sex on legs. And can we just talk about how he practically swooped in and saved you today?"
I huff, faking exasperation but secretly replaying the moment—Cal's hand on my back, his body positioning itself protectively near mine, the way he looked at Evan like he was measuring him for a coffin.
"Okay, okay, yes." I throw up my hands in surrender, nearly knocking over the salt shaker.
"He was giving knight in shining armor. Happy? "
Amanda grins, teeth white against her hot pink lipstick. "Extremely."
I shake my head, sipping my drink. "You are impossible."
Amanda just shrugs, the movement sending her earrings swinging. "Speaking of impossible—have you gone full filth mode with the app yet?"
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I feign ignorance.
She rolls her eyes, looking exasperated with my innocence. "I was sure that message I sent would've gotten you started."
I cover my face with both hands, feeling the heat of embarrassment beneath my palms. "Amanda, no."
"Maybe I need to ratchet things up a notch." Her voice holds a mischievous promise that sends alarm bells ringing through my tequila-hazed mind.
I snap my head up, suddenly alert. "No. You are not getting my phone again."
"Then let me educate you."
I narrow my eyes, suspicion mixing with curiosity. "How?"
She grabs her own phone and tosses it onto the table. It lands with a clatter among the lime wedges and salt spills. "Read my chat."
I stare at it like it might bite me. The screen glows innocuously in the neon bar lighting. "You're just... handing me your phone?"
Amanda sips her drink, completely unbothered. "I'm not embarrassed about my sexuality. Go on, read it."
I hesitate, finger hovering over the screen.
Then, slowly, I pick it up.
I start reading.
"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, AMANDA." The words burst from me louder than intended, drawing startled looks from the table next to us.
Amanda, still casually eating chips, doesn't even flinch. "What?"
I gape at the screen, reading and re-reading the explicit chat history that would make even the most adventurous romance novels blush. The words blur slightly, whether from tequila or shock, I'm not sure. "What did I just—WHAT DID I JUST READ?"
She takes another sip, completely unbothered by my reaction. The ice clinks against her glass. "Oh yeah. That was last night's sexy bedtime story."
I stare at her, momentarily speechless.
"Chad tells me a sexy bedtime story to make me come every night." She winks, utterly shameless.
I drop the phone like it's infected, pushing it across the table with one finger. The screen goes dark as it slides away.
"Amanda, that—that story." I shake my head, trying to unsee the words, the vivid descriptions, the utterly filthy scenarios her AI had concocted. "That was—"
"Hot as hell." She licks salt from her fingers without breaking eye contact, a slow smile playing on her lips.
"Me walking down a dark alleyway, and four extremely attractive men can't stop themselves because I'm so unbelievably gorgeous, and they just descend on me, and after my consent is more than enthusiastically given, they proceed to pound into every single one of my holes until I can't think straight. "
I slap a hand over my face, fingers spreading to peek through them. "You’re insane."
She’s completely undeterred by my embarrassment. "What? It's fantasy."
I peer at her from between my fingers, curiosity overcoming mortification. "So... that's something you want?"
Amanda laughs, the sound bright and genuine. "Noooo, not in real life. But it's hot in my head. That's what fantasy is for."
"It's kind of like—" she gestures vaguely with a chip, thinking, searching for the right analogy.
Then she snaps her fingers.
"Like wanting to be an assassin but only in a video game. You don't actually want to kill people, but you do want to be a badass with a sniper rifle for a few hours."
I try to process this perspective. The tequila makes her logic seem surprisingly sound. "That... actually makes sense."
Amanda nods triumphantly. "Exactly. The app is perfect for that. You get to be unhinged in a safe space."
I swirl my margarita, chewing on that thought. The ice has melted considerably, making the drink weaker but somehow that’s worse—easier to drink quickly, to forget it contains alcohol at all.
Maybe she's right.
Maybe I should be more... daring.
I tap my fingers against the table, already debating my next move with Caleb. The rhythm of my fingernails matches the beat of the music, creating a private percussion against the wooden surface. I feel really warm.
Then Amanda suddenly straightens, her posture changing from relaxed to alert in an instant. Her eyes fix on something over my shoulder, widening with interest. She nods toward the door, her lips curving into a knowing smile.
"Your boyfriend just arrived."
A cold dread replaces the warm glow of tequila. The music suddenly seems too loud, the lights too bright, everything amplified by panic.
I whip around, so fast I nearly knock over my drink. The chair legs screech against the floor. "Evan's here?" I scan the entrance desperately.
And then I see them.
Not Evan.
The security guys from the store. Martinez and Harris, both looking more casual than I've ever seen them, in jeans and t-shirts instead of their usual uniforms. They scan the bar with habitual vigilance, even off-duty.
And, right behind them—
Callahan.
My breath catches in my throat. He's wearing dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders in a way his work shirts never did, revealing the full extent of his tattoos.
The ink curls down his forearms in intricate patterns I've only caught glimpses of before.
His hair is slightly tousled, less controlled than at work.
He looks different. Dangerous. Even more magnetic.
And he's walking straight toward us.