16. Chapter 16
Addy
So … you do this with a lot of girls, or am I special?
Sasha: You’re special.
My stomach did an absolutely traitorous little flip.
You’re special.
That was—
No.
It was nothing but a line. A calculated, manipulative line, and I would not react like this over two words on a screen.
Except I kind of already had.
My thumb hovered uselessly above the keyboard while my mind raced ahead, conjuring up unwelcome images: other women, other conversations, other versions of him that probably didn’t even exist.
I hated how the thought of him texting someone else sent a sharp, petulant pang of what felt suspiciously like jealousy twisting through my chest.
Fucking fantastic.
This is a bad idea, I told myself firmly, for the fourth time in under a minute. You don’t really know him. You don’t know what he wants. You don’t even fucking know what he did or what he looks like. Also, he’s a criminal. Criminals lie, right?
And yet, I was still typing.
I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing given the … circumstances.
Sasha: Definitely a good thing.
That’s not as comforting as you might think it is.
Sasha: Comfort is overrated.
Well now I feel like a dick.
Sasha: Why?
Um, because I’m talking about comfort while you’re literally locked in a cell.
Duh.
Sasha: Are you flexible?
What?!
Sasha: I guess I’m just wondering if you’re only flexible when doing the mental gymnastics you had to do to make this connection, or if this translates into real life as well
Oh my God! You’re impossible.
And it’s not like you’d ever find out whether I’m fucking flexible.
Sasha: Maybe not. But it would greatly improve the realism of my fantasies.
Right.
You don’t even know what I look like, so joke’s on you and your supposed fantasies.
I stared at the screen, unimpressed by how quickly my body had betrayed me.
Heat was racing through my body. Real heat, caused by a man I had never met, messaging me on an app so dubious, it might as well come with its own felony charge.
I told myself — very calmly, very reasonably — this was manipulation. Anyone with sense would uninstall the app, block the number and maybe light a candle for their sanity afterward.
Instead, I reread the message.
Then reread it again.
I should stop. I knew I should but the truth was, I wasn’t good at doing what I was supposed to do.
Sasha: Don’t I?
Sasha: How did my men find you then?
Yeah, about that … you’re aware this was kind of creepy, right?
Hold on, no!
Nice try but you’re not distracting me.
Sasha: Yeah, you caught me.
Are you saying you know what I look like?
Sasha: Of course I do. Do you NOT know what I look like?
Of course not.
It’s not like we’ll ever see each other in real life, so it’s entirely unnecessary.
Sasha: I know you’re probably trying to piss me off but it’s really not working. Quite the opposite, actually.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
Sasha: You don’t even know what I look like, and you’re THIS hooked. That’s a win in my books.
I’m not hooked.
Sasha: That why you were jealous when we started this convo, Little Devil?
That’s preposterous.
And we’re so not in nickname territory, buddy.
Sasha: If you say so…
Sasha: You know what I think?
Nope. And I don’t care, either.
Sasha: I think you’re scared you’re gonna like what you see.
Yeah, right. Am I supposed to believe you’re God’s gift to womankind?
Sasha: Guess that’s for me to know and for you to find out.
You’re the worst.
I dropped the phone onto the couch like it had personally offended me and paced the length of my apartment, dragging a hand through my hair.
This was spiraling out of control. Fast.
And the truly damning part was … I wasn’t even embarrassed enough to stop.
“He’s the worst,” I muttered again, this time to the empty room, even though the heat hadn’t dissipated yet and my pulse hadn’t slowed.
This was reckless. This was how people ended up regretting things. There was nothing safe about a man who could find me this easily, who spoke with this kind of confidence and enjoyed provoking reactions from me as if it were a sport.
I should delete the app.
I should stop replying.
I absolutely should not be smiling like an idiot.
But the idea of him already knowing what I looked like — of him picturing me this whole time while I’d been talking to a faceless voice — sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with being seen.
Which was ridiculous.
And dangerous.
And … kind of intoxicating.
I picked my phone back up, stared at his last message, and sighed.
This is a bad idea, I told myself one last time, fully aware my words no longer carried any authority.