Chapter 4
MIA
MatchNote Notification
Hey pretty lady. How was ur Halloween?
I hav a broomstick u can cum ride on.
Hit me up.
UGH! This is pointless.
His message dried my pussy up more than the Sahara. What the fuck is this bullshit? He can’t even take the time to write complete words. And don’t even get me started on his username.
I toss my phone to the side and stretch out in bed, pointedly ignoring the sting of my thighs.
I’m such an idiot. At this point I should probably consider swearing off men altogether, just look at my track record—tonight included.
How did I not figure out the mystery masked man, who arguably gave me the best sex of my life, again, is none other than Swayze Wolff, playboy police lieutenant, aka my fucking roommate?
Not everyone wears three thick silver rings on their fingers. The cool metal pressing against my cheek should’ve been a dead giveaway.
And then there was the shaggy hair, long enough to tangle my fingers in. Not to mention his woody cologne.
I literally just walked past his open bedroom doorway and the same scent slapped me in the face.
And can we talk about the way he touched my face before he walked away?
Or the way your breath just stuttered, reliving the memory of his fingers stroking your jaw… that wasn’t the touch of a freakin’ stranger was it Mia?
God, I’m such an idiot. I even thought he was familiar. Safe.
The fucking signs were all there. Honestly, a fish slap would’ve been more subtle.
Did I somehow know who it was subconsciously and want it to happen?!
I tamp down on the urge to giggle nervously—hysterically, more like.
How the fuck am I supposed to process that?
The first time we fucked was meant to be a mistake. We’re definitely not gonna talk about it being the second best fuck of my life.
It should never have happened.
Good sex isn’t worth the risk, especially when our lives are too intertwined. Too complicated.
We were neighbors growing up and have been in the same friendship group forever. We’ve even lived together for a huge chunk of our adult lives.
My twin brother—another of his best friends—and I shared dorms with him in college. Then I moved in with him three years ago after I broke up with my cheating, trash human ex—yes, that Ex.
Oh, and I should probably mention that our parents are still neighbors. And best friends. We attend family dinners together once a freakin’ month.
“Don’t shit where you eat” couldn’t be more appropriate in our situation.
Sooooo it really wasn’t the best idea to drunk fuck him in the Jett’s restroom—despite being so horny we didn’t want to waste time coming home—even if it was hot as fuck.
At least, it was hot as fuck… until he made it weird by asking me on a date while I was literally bouncing on his cock. I still don’t understand what the hell that was about.
My guy has never dated.
Ne-ver.
I’ve run into way more of his one-night stands over the years than I’ve had hot dinners.
It’s not his nature to be monogamous and that’s fine, I’ve never judged him for it.
I know messing with our status quo and agreeing to a date with him would’ve been the worst idea, but refusing made things hella awkward. It’s left our friendship strained as shit.
I’ve spent most of my time staying with the girls or locked away in my bedroom to avoid awkward conversations I really can’t bear to have when he’s home.
Now this?
Who fucks someone pretending to be a stranger?
Who willingly fucks a stranger?
Apparently, this girl.
And I’ve fallen on his dick not once but twice now.
Good job, Mia.
One wild night between strangers, my ass. Wild for me—something else entirely for him.
Now I just feel cheap, violated even.
Glancing at the time on my phone, I jump up from the bed. He’ll be home any minute.
God, I hope he gets called into work tomorrow. I really don’t have the bandwidth to see him, knowing I had his cock inside me less than twenty-four hours ago.
Running toward the kitchen, I jerk open the junk drawer, grabbing our stack of Post-its and a pen to leave this fucker a note.
Don’t you dare knock.
I don’t want to see you.
I don’t want your bullshit explanation.
Leave me the fuck alone.
I slap the square on my bedroom door—the neon yellow looking a lot brighter than my mood—before slamming and locking it.
A chime wakes me from the worst night’s sleep ever. If it’s a message from Swayze, I’m gonna throw my phone at our shared bedroom wall so he hears it.
Ok, maybe that’s a bit much. I’ll throw something I don’t need instead. Like that empty perfume bottle I haven’t thrown out yet.
That’ll do.
He’ll know to stay well away since I woke up and chose violence today.
Mom
Don’t forget the date with Silvia’s son tonight. Don’t wear yoga pants.
Oh God.
Fuck my fucking life.
I did forget.
Now I really want to choose violence.
With a groan, I throw my head back and smack the headboard with a bang. Maybe that will knock some sense into me because I should know better.
I love my parents, I do, but they want both their kids sooooo in love and happily married like they are.
They got married at eighteen, which is like a million years ago.
Things are totally different now. We have DoorDash, WiFi…
OnlyFans. These days it’s hard to get a man to commit and stay faithful for longer than the length of a phone contract.
But now, with my twin getting married in a month, their heart eyes have been firmly focused on me for the last year.
Mom offered to set me up with countless friends of friends' sons and I’d managed to resist, until she texted me a few weeks ago in a moment of weakness.
Or madness.
I’d gotten home from another disastrous MatchNote date and was drunk crying over a tub of Ben and Jerry’s about being alone and having to see the aforementioned trash bag ex at this stupid wedding—a personal low, I know—so I stupidly agreed in sheer desperation.
Why do I do this to myself?
Me
Ok. Fine.
Mom
Maybe he’s the one. He’s free to fly out to the wedding with us. I already checked the dates with him.
Me
OMG Mom, stop
Mom
Fine, fine! But let me know how it goes.
I can’t even.
Thank fuck I have breakfast with the girls this morning to help distract me.
Ugh, and the boys, which means Swayze.
Creeping to my bedroom door, nervous butterflies dance low in my stomach. I suck in a deep breath and grip the handle in my sweaty palm to open it a crack.
Ahh, sweet heavenly silence.
I bolt for the bathroom, shower and dress in record time. Without even smudging my eyeliner—now that's an achievement.
The minute I’m done, I hear stirring from his bedroom.
Nope.
There’s no way I’m gonna have a showdown with him first thing. I’ve already had my mom practically marry me off to a random stranger today, dammit. There’s only so much I can take without coffee to make me feel more human and less… stabby.
Heart racing, I grab my laptop and run out our front door, closing it behind me with a quiet click.
Driving my Mustang with the sun shining, and my music cranked up—because singing “You Should See Me in a Crown” by Billie Eilish is my whole ass jam right now—I can almost feel my mood brightening. Of course, the second I start belting out the chorus, my phone rings.
Please no.
My stomach flips, and my hands white-knuckle the steering wheel while I hesitantly glance at the screen. The second I see Haven’s name, I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Thank fuck it isn’t him because that would really kill my whole vibe. It’s shaky at best as it is.
“Hey babe, what’s up?”
“Hey you—Axel stop, go away—I wanted to make sure you were feeling better today. Still up for breakfast at Macy’s?” Haven giggles down the phone, her fire hunk clearly not leaving her alone.
Lucky bitch.
“Yep, on my way there now actually. Thought I could get an hour's work in while I wait for the rest of you. You’re welcome to join me earlier if Axel can live without you.”
“Ooooh yeah, I can do. Let’s add Kim and see if she can get here any earlier too. I’ve got new donut holes for you to try.”
I hear a muffled “Hey” from Axel in the background before she laughs again.
These two really are couple goals, even though it took them long enough to get here. No one would look at them and doubt his devotion to her, or vice versa.
I could never say the same thing about Pete. Why the hell did I let him drag me along in that dead-end relationship for almost a decade?!
Nope, we aren’t thinking about the trash bag ex, remember?
Before I spiral down that hole, Kim answers and jumps at the chance to get some adult time earlier and agrees to meet us there.
We end the call as I pull into a parking spot and head into Macy’s, choosing our usual booth. It’s big enough to accommodate all six of us, with space on the end for a chair if Beckett decides to drop by.
He’s been doing that more and more these days. No bad thing since he’s pretty to look at. Another manwhore though.
What is it about these boys? They’re all drop-dead gorgeous, total utter sluts. Well, with the exception of Axel—now at least, he was the same before too.
They get away with it because they’re the nice kind, all charming smiles and open books. They break hearts, but they don’t do it intentionally.
Must be nice to do whatever, or whoever you want without any real fear of repercussion. If you have a pair of tits, you don’t get that luxury. You’re instantly judged for having some fun.
Newsflash, women get horny too.
Welp, I better climb off my soapbox and do some work before the others get here. That’s one thing I can control, and if my column helps even one person feel less alone, and assures them they aren’t a total pariah, then I’ve done my job right.
Opening my laptop, I navigate to my latest article for Blush Magazine.
Dickonomics: Are Dating Apps Giving You More Bang For Your buck?
Ha, how about NO.