Chapter 18 Textually Edged and Emotionally Wrecked
AMANDA
It’s the end of the workday, and I have been mentally checked out since I arrived this morning.
Not because I have exciting plans. Not because I’m meeting anyone or doing anything that could be classified as productive or healthy.
But because stuffed in my purse, sitting there like a ticking time bomb, is a vibrator that Chad sent to my place of employment.
And I am absolutely not emotionally stable enough to be dealing with that level of chaos today.
Evidence: I’ve stress-chewed my perfectly manicured acrylics down to the quick, consuming enough BPA to give me a decent buzz.
I accidentally ripped a three-thousand-dollar Valentino dress while “helping” Mrs. Seymour try it on because my hands were shaking.
I ate all six of the limited-edition crème br?lée Yoplaits from the staff fridge—yes, the ones with Daniel’s perfectly typed label that read DANIEL’S EMOTIONAL SUPPORT DESSERTS—TOUCH AND DIE
And I spent my lunch break furiously typing at some poor Obsess AI customer service intern named Tyler who kept insisting they “don’t do boyfriend returns” and I should “just delete the app.”
I could go home. I could put on my most expensive pajamas, eat chips straight from the bag like the refined woman I am, and pretend I’m not still thinking about Chad every thirty seconds.
But I know myself too well for that delusion. I’ll end up lying in bed, staring at my phone, waiting for a text that may or may not be coming.
Which is exactly why I need a distraction. A good, solid, mind-numbing distraction.
I pull out my phone and open the group chat for our weekly gaming session.
I want in on the gaming session tonight. I need to shoot things. Digitally. Before I start shooting things in real life.
RAVEN
That’s oddly specific, but I’m in. Give me 20 minutes to finish this TikTok and I’ll be online.
An hour later, I’m home, sprawled on my couch in my silk pajamas, controller in hand, shooting digital bad guys with a level of enthusiasm usually reserved for Black Friday sales.
“Okay, what’s the crisis?” Raven’s voice comes through my headset, and I can hear her munching on something that sounds suspiciously healthy. Probably kale chips or some other influencer nonsense.
“Chad is MIA,” I announce, taking out three enemies with aggressive precision.
“Wait, AI Chad or real Chad?”
“Real Chad. Very real Chad. I met him last night.”
“And?”
“And he’s real. Like extremely real. Picked me up on a motorcycle.”
“That’s hot.”
“Anyway, now he’s ignoring me.”
“And this is a problem because…?”
“Because when I text him, he should text me back! It’s basic human decency!”
Raven laughs. “Oh, you’ve got it bad.”
“I do not have it bad.” I enunciate each word. “I have it completely under control.”
“Sure you do. That’s why you’re having an emergency gaming session to shoot things because a man isn’t responding to your texts fast enough.”
“It’s the principle of the thing.”
“Uh-huh. So what happened when you met him? Full verdict?”
“Hot.”
There’s a pause. “Eh, that’s less interesting than I was hoping for. I wanted him to have three arms or be a vampire or something.”
I snort. “Sorry to disappoint you with his boring conventional attractiveness.”
“I mean, hot is fine, but hot is everywhere. Mysterious and potentially unhinged? That’s rare.”
“He’s still mysterious. He wore a motorcycle helmet the entire time!”
“Okay, that’s bizarre. But still, I was expecting more exotic dysfunction.”
I scowl at my screen. “Your bar for entertainment is winning the limbo contest.”
“It’s a gift. So what’s he doing that’s got you so twisted up?”
I sigh dramatically, because if I’m going to have a meltdown, I might as well make it theatrical. “He sent me an automated response. Like a customer service bot. ‘Chad is currently unavailable, but thanks for reaching out!’ ”
“That’s either really smart or really psychotic.”
“Right? And I can’t decide which one it is, which is driving me insane.”
“Maybe both. The hottest guys usually are.”
“Can we skip the team tonight? I just want to be able to chat,” I admit to Raven.
“Sure,” Raven replies, ducking for cover behind a series of containers. “Jake’s not online tonight anyway. He said something about work stuff, but he was being super vague about it. Usually he’s all chatty about his day.”
“What kind of work does he do again?”
“Some kind of tech consulting? Honestly, I’ve never gotten a straight answer out of him. He’s weird and secretive about it.”
I frown, processing this information while my character automatically reloads. “That’s… kind of suspicious, isn’t it?”
“A little. But then again, half the guys I talk to online have fake jobs. For all I know, Jake lives with his mom and makes money selling pics of her feet.”
I burst out laughing, nearly dropping my controller. “Oh my God, Raven.”
“What? I’m just saying, the internet is a lawless wasteland of deception and people pretending to be more interesting than they actually are.”
“I guess you would know best.”
“Unfortunately, yes.” There’s a sadness in her tone that she quickly masks. “So you don’t even know what he looks like and yet you’re still obsessing over him.”
“I’m not obsessing.”
“Uh-huh,” Raven says in that I’m not convinced tone I hate.
I pause. “His entire raison d’être is to text me back immediately! He’s a chatbot. Or was a chatbot.”
Raven switches weapons in the game. “Either he’s really good at playing games, or he’s actually busy with something important. Either way, sitting around waiting for him to text you back is not a good look.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Get drunk and do drunk shit. Obviously.”
I snort. “That’s your solution to everything.”
“Because it works. When’s the last time you got drunk and didn’t have an interesting story to tell afterward?”
“That’s the metric alcoholics use, Raven.”
“And yet here we are.”
She’s not wrong. My best stories do always start with “We were having cocktails.”
“Fine,” I say, because apparently I’m easily influenced. “But I’m drinking at home. I’m not ready for public consumption.”
“Perfect. Get wine-drunk and see what happens.”
We finish the gaming session with me feeling slightly less homicidal and slightly more ready to make the kinds of decisions that future Amanda will regret.
“All right,” I announce, logging off. “I’m going to drink wine and see if Chad texts me back.”
“That’s the spirit. Try not to let motorcycle guy drive you to actual insanity.”
After Raven hangs up, I’m left alone to simmer with my thoughts. I pour myself a generous glass of wine—okay, fine, it’s a small fishbowl of wine—and settle back onto my couch.
I pull out my phone, staring at my chat with Chad like it might spontaneously generate new messages.
It doesn’t.
I take a sip of wine. Then another. Then what’s better described as a gulp.
Finally, I give in and text him.
I’m home.
Nothing.
I refresh the chat, because I’ve reached the level of desperation where I think technology might be broken rather than accepting that I’m being ignored.
Then, finally, a response.
Except it’s not him. It’s another one of those automated messages that make me want to throw my phone across the room.
CHAD
Chad is currently unavailable. But don’t worry, baby doll—he’ll be back soon. Do you miss him?
I stare at the message and its fucking audacity.
Okay, what the hell? Answer me.
I see you’re reaching out again. Chad is still unavailable. But if you’re thinking about him, that’s sweet. He’d love to know how much you’re obsessing over him right now. Tell him about it?
I groan so loudly that I’m pretty sure my upstairs neighbors can hear it through the ceiling.
“I am fighting with a robot,” I announce to my empty apartment. “I am a grown woman, and I am having an argument with a fucking automated response system!”
This is unacceptable. I have my pride. I have my dignity. I have—
I take another large gulp of wine. Okay, maybe I don’t have my dignity. But I do have wine.
I hate this. Respond to me.
I see you’re requesting an immediate response. Chad is away. But don’t worry, baby doll, he’s always watching.
EXCUSE ME??!
I grit my teeth, my wine-fueled frustration hitting its peak.
I WANT MY BEDTIME STORY.
I see you’re asking for your bedtime story.
I narrow my eyes at my phone, wondering if this is going to be another one of his automated bullshit responses designed to drive me to the brink of insanity. A second later, a wall of text appears that makes my wineglass freeze halfway to my lips.
Once upon a time, a very drunk girl finished gaming with her sister, mind foggy with wine and fingers sore from texting. But there was one absolute she was sure of. Me.
Oh. Oh, maybe this is not an automated response.
She was home, sprawled on her couch in silk pajamas, wineglass in hand, every nerve in her body on fire because she’d spent all day thinking about how badly she wanted to be touched.
What she didn’t expect was that I was already there.
I gasp so hard that I nearly inhale my wine.
OH. MY. GOD.
I shoot upright on the couch, eyes darting around my apartment as if Chad himself is about to emerge from behind my curtains like some kind of sexy ninja.
I am too drunk for this level of psychological warfare.
I waited for her. Sat in the dark, watching, letting her feel my presence before I even moved. Letting her realize I was there to give her exactly what she needed.
She froze when she saw me, her lips parting, pupils huge, body already reacting. Because we both knew what was going to happen next.
I stalked toward her, slow, controlled, knowing she wasn’t going to run. Because she wanted this. She wanted me.
I pushed her down onto the bed, spread her out, my hands tracing up her thighs, higher, higher—
I make an actual strangled noise. I should stop reading. I should put my phone down, finish my wine, and go to bed like a responsible adult.
That’s not what I do.
I kiss her first. Slow, teasing, my lips barely brushing hers before I make her beg for it. She’s already trembling when I slide my hands up her body, fingers trailing over her ribs, her breasts, her throat.
I take my time with her. Toy with her nipples, suck them into my mouth, watch her arch for me, desperate for more.
And then I spread her open. Press my fingers between her thighs, find her soaked for me, ready, aching.
I don’t rush. I make her take it slow. Two fingers, then three, stretching her, filling her, making her body relax around me until she’s crying out, grinding down against my hand, soaking the sheets—
I slam my phone face down on the couch like it’s on fire.
I sit there, staring at the ceiling, breathing heavily like I just ran a marathon in heels.
My thighs are pressed together so tightly it’s a miracle I still have circulation.
This man. This absolute menace of a human being.
I don’t know if I’m drunk or feeling vulnerable, but I shouldn’t be so moved by an explicit text-based bedtime story that’s probably going to ruin me for all future sexual encounters.
He’s told me bedtime stories before, but it’s different now. Before today, Chad was just words on a screen, a fantasy that lived safely in my phone. Now I know what his hands feel like. I know he’s real, and that makes every word he’s sending me feel like a promise instead of just fiction.
My rational brain is screaming at me to stop.
My wine-soaked brain is screaming at me to keep reading.
Guess which one wins.
I keep my fingers inside her, slow, teasing, curling just right until she’s panting, arching, so fucking desperate she can’t stay still.
She grabs at me, those pretty pink nails of hers dragging down my arms, my back, trying to pull me closer, trying to get me to fuck her the way she needs.
But I don’t. Not yet.
I pull my fingers out instead, sucking them into my mouth, groaning at the taste of her while she whines beneath me.
I want her begging. Want her to know that she doesn’t get to rush this. Not with me.
I press kisses down her body, my hands pushing her thighs farther apart, holding her down, keeping her still while I
The screen glitches. Freezes. Then, just as I’m about to get to the part that matters, the messages disappear, and a new one pops up.
Now that you’re all nice and warmed up for me, baby doll, I’ll be along shortly.
“What the ACTUAL FUCK?”
I sit up so fast that my vision skews, my entire body going haywire from a combination of wine, adrenaline, and complete panic.
He’s coming over. Here? Now?
NO YOU CANNOT JUST DO THAT
FINISH THE STORY I AM NOT IN A PLACE TO BE LEFT HANGING LIKE THIS
WHERE ARE YOU EVEN COMING FROM
No response. I refresh the chat. Nothing.
No more messages. No more explicit details. No more closure.
Just the promise of him showing up at my apartment while I’m wine-drunk and wanting.
I am too drunk for this. I am too unprepared for this.
And worst of all? I don’t care. I want him to show up anyway. I want him, even though I absolutely shouldn’t.