Chapter 14
DIGITAL WHIPLASH
RORIE
I’m flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, the soft amber of the city slipping through my window and pooling across the floor. Everything is still.
Except me.
Because tonight…I was on fire.
I nailed it. Captivated Asher Cross. Had him hanging on every word. His gaze lit with curiosity. His interest palpable. That kind of spark doesn’t happen every day.
I should be high on that win.
I should be basking in it.
But instead?
I’m twisted in sheets and contradictions.
Because Nolan Rhodes happened.
His voice still echoes in my mind, low and teasing, every syllable sliding over me like silk that bites.
His dark eyes assessing, amused, they cut through me with precision, leaving sparks in their wake.
That man’s presence isn’t something you brush off.
It clings. Like smoke. Like heat. Like trouble you don’t want to escape.
He was going to kiss me. I saw it in his eyes.
Worse—I wanted him to.
And I have no idea what the hell to do with that.
I want to blame the drinks. The high of the win. The rush of the night.
But deep down, I know it wasn’t the alcohol.
It was him.
Oh, and that look he gave when Asher pulled me away. The barely contained fury, the tick in his jaw. He was holding back words—or something rougher. But it wasn’t because he lost Asher’s attention. It was because he lost mine.
Except Nolan’s reading the wrong script. Asher isn’t interested in me. In that way.
He’s head-over-Hollywood-heels for Maya.
The man who jumps off buildings for a living and has fans screaming his name from balconies is completely, stupidly enamored with my best friend.
But because his entire career is built on the illusion of availability, he’s got a team managing a fake relationship with Celeste Monroe—his current costar in the Black Rhombus spy thriller franchise and PR-approved girlfriend.
So what does a man like that do when he’s too famous to flirt?
He recruits me to do it for him.
Apparently, dodging bullets is easier than facing the possibility of rejection from a pretty girl.
So, I’m his wingwoman. His go-between. His secret weapon in the war for Maya’s heart. Or at the very least, a date.
Whose life is this? I’m playing matchmaker to a man whose face is printed on pillowcases. I even had to sign an NDA.
I say all this to say: Nolan, you had the wrong idea.
And that what stings more than it should. Because when he looked at me like he did—as if I was something worth fighting for—it felt good. Addictive.
And that’s troubling.
I know what it’s like to be wanted… right up until I’m not. Quinn taught me that. He loved me until I became inconvenient. Until my grief became something heavier than he wanted to help me carry.
One day I was his world. And the next, just a girl in his rearview mirror.
So yeah, Nolan’s gaze? The slow drag of his eyes across my body, taking in the shape of me? That should’ve meant nothing. Because he means nothing.
Except it didn’t.
Now I’m in my bed, skin flushed, legs restless, and heart hammering like I just ran a marathon barefoot in the rain.
And the image of Nolan “Please Ruin Me” Rhodes is burned behind my eyelids—a brand I never asked for.
But God, the way his tux hugged his body. It was custom built to destroy my last nerve. The open collar of his shirt once he took the tie off. He rolled his sleeves up over those toned forearms and I nearly came undone just standing there watching him do it.
His scent. Bourbon and cedar and something spicy. Sin in a bottle.
I press my thighs together, a desperate, useless attempt to ease the ache building inside me.
Damn it.
I hate him.
But I want to know exactly what those hands would do on my skin. I want his mouth on mine—dragging me in, backing me against a wall, pinning me there and consuming me all night.
Would he take his time?
Would he devour me?
Savor me?
A tremble courses through me.
I roll onto my side, but it only makes things worse. The friction of the sheets reminds me of what I don’t have—of what I’m craving.
Of what I shouldn’t be thinking about.
Nolan would be thorough. Precise. He wouldn’t just touch me—he’d claim me.
My fingers trail down my stomach, hesitant, testing the heat that’s been building since the second he looked at me like I was already his and said, “Oh, definitely a mark.”
I want him.
I want that tension. That edge. That ache that won’t quit until someone breaks.
I want to know how Nolan Rhodes takes apart a woman, piece by piece.
My hand dips beneath the hem of my sleep shirt, skin electric at the contact. I close my eyes, letting the fantasy rise to meet me.
Nolan’s hands, his breath, his voice a low rasp against my neck.
What would he say to me?
“Open for me, Rorie. I’m not stopping until I’ve got you dripping on my tongue and your taste burned into my fucking memory.”
My tongue flicks across my bottom lip, slow and instinctive, as my fingers trail lower, skimming over the slick heat between my thighs. I circle my clit once—twice—barely brushing it, a teasing rhythm that makes my breath catch.
A soft gasp escapes, swallowed by the quiet hush of my bedroom, every nerve strung tight with wanting.
His name flutters in the back of my throat, unspoken but pulsing in time with the ache building inside me. The image of him is carved into my mind—eyes dark with intent, mouth drifting over my skin, whispering filthy fucking things to me.
I drag my fingers through my wet heat, before easing two of them inside, slowly, the way I imagine he would. My hips tilt instinctively, a low moan spills from my lips. I begin to move as lazy, languid strokes make my body clench and my pulse stutter.
I pretend it’s him—his hands, his fingers, the confident, hungry way I know he’d touch me. The way he’d look at me while doing it. He would want to ruin me slowly… see how long it took.
And I would love every filthy, perfect second.
Reaching the edge faster than I’d like to admit, a breathy whimper snags in my throat as my body arches, trembling against the wave crashing through me.
But when it’s over—when the storm inside me settles—I’m not relieved.
I’m restless.
Because that wasn’t enough.
Because it wasn’t him.
And as I lie here, chest rising and falling in the hush of the aftermath, I realize the worst part.
I’m already aching for more of him.
And I hate it.
I sit up, my heart still fluttering, chest tight, the room cloaked in that hush only cities know—quiet but never still.
My phone buzzes. Unknown Number.
You up? Or did I use up all your goodwill the other night?
I should ignore it.
I should.
But not responding feels wrong. Like leaving a story unfinished or quitting a puzzle with one piece missing.
Didn’t expect to hear from you again. No crisis tonight, I hope?
A long pause.
Not yet. But the night’s still young.
It’s 2am. Then again, you are the “drama after midnight” type.
Ugh an emoji. New rule! You only get three before I start judging your taste in memes.
Only three? Why are you such a killer of fun?
It’s mercy. Trust me—four is a red flag.
You’re really going to keep count?
Rules are rules. And that’s #6.
You just like bossing me around.
You have an issue with authority?
I’m terrible at following rules.
Figures. I bet you eat fries straight out of the bag before you even get home.
Who doesn’t?
People with self-control.
Sounds boring. Fun fact, fries are better when stolen.
That explains so much about you.
The tension in my chest eases slightly. Somehow, this stranger has a way of lighting up everything. Even when I’m dragging the weight of the world behind me. And the guilt of fantasizing about my sworn enemy.
So now that we’re officially on round two, what should I save you as in my contacts?
You’re assuming I’m into repeats.
What? I pop your accidental texting cherry, and now you’re playing hard to get?
If that was my first time, I’d expect flowers, a parade, and a commemorative plaque.
A plaque, huh? High standards.
Always. But don’t get too cocky—you’re not THAT memorable.
And yet…here you are, texting me again.
Temporary lapse in judgment. Don’t let it go to your head.
Too late. Now I’m officially your first AND second. I’m a trendsetter.
Or just lucky I’m bored. And have snacks.
Hey, whatever gets me the three-peat.
God help me—I’m smiling. This is ridiculous. But it’s also… nice.
So, what should I save you as?
Oh, we’re actually doing this?
Saving contact names? Uh, yeah.
No, pretending you didn’t ghost me.
Ghost has such a negative annotation.
You vanished.
Strategic silence. Can I plead to Rule #4 and say I was sleeping?
Not a chance.
Not fair. You didn’t text either. Pot. Kettle.
Touché.
Full confession…
Chloe came by. Took her things. I’ve been reflecting.
Oof. That’s rough. Okay. I’ll let it slide. This once.
Your kindness knows no bounds.
Believe me. I know.
So, smartass, let’s try again. What’s your contact name?
Let’s start with yours. Dashing Stranger? Clueless Texter? Doll-Loving Carl?
How about Persistent Charmer?
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Fine. We’ll trade. You name me, I name you.
Dangerous, but I’m in. You shall henceforth be known as... Carl the Doll Collector. With the pigtail girl emoji.
Offensive. Change it.
Nope. Actions have consequences. Next time, don’t ghost me, CARL.
You’re a menace.
And you’re stuck with me.
Lucky me. Also, you’ve used one emoji. Two left.
Shaking my head, I type the name Carl into my contacts. It’s dumb. It’s nothing. But it’s also a tiny morsel of control in the storm of everything else.
Fine. But you’re not getting off that easy either.
Yeah, yeah. I’m terrified.
What do you want to call me?
A lot of things. Mostly trouble.
Interesting coming from someone who started this mess.
Hey, I’m just trying to keep up with your chaotic energy.
Stop stalling. What’s my name?
Textually Frustrated.
Hmmm…okay, fair.
Thought so.
So what’s with the dramatic reappearance? One minute you’re MIA, next minute you’re texting me like nothing happened.
You ever hate someone?
That’s random.
Is it?
A little. Most people don’t text strangers deep questions at midnight. Also, you broke Rule #2.
Guilty. But I gave you fair warning…I’ve always had a thing for breaking rules… especially when they come with consequences. Should I be expecting punishment? Do I get to pick it?
Keep talking like that and I’m adding a Rule #7: No flirting with your therapist.
Too late. You should’ve led with that one.
Back to your question, Carl.
Hate is pretty harsh.
So no enemies? No one’s labeled you something you’re not?
My fingers pause over the screen. Yeah. There is. A few.
People see what they want to see.
And what do they see when they look at you?
Depends who you ask.
What if I asked you?
That’s a deep, personal question. And you’ve already used your one.
Rule #2. No deep questions after midnight. Got it.
Break it and I block you.
Ruthless.
Don’t test me.
So what happens when people do you wrong?
Ignore them. Or make them regret it. I’m flexible.
Ah, revenge. The professional’s therapy.
With better outfits.
Sounds like you’ve mastered it.
PhD in proving people wrong.
There’s a pause. Longer this time.
How long should someone wait… before moving on?
Oh. Oh.
You are all over the board tonight, Carl. Are you like…asking me out?
Carl:
Emoji two.
You’re skating close to the edge. First, you emotionally manipulate me with fry discourse, now this.
Just exploring the line between rebounding and rediscovering.
Completely subjective. Could be a day. A month. A year. Could be the moment you realize your ex is a garbage person and you dodged a flaming dumpster fire.
A flaming dumpster fire?
With raccoons.
Um...okay.
Just saying. The moment you realize someone’s not your person, you’re free. You don’t owe them a grieving period.
So, no rules.
No rules. But there’s one guideline.
Let me guess. No rebounds.
Careful rebounds. Nobody wants to be the emotional stand-in.
But what if she’s not a stand-in?
Then you already know the answer.
Another pause.
So, us? Friends?
Sure. But let’s keep the mystery.
No real names. No pressure. Just drama, sarcasm, and borderline emotional blackmail.
I do enjoy emotionally blackmailing you.
And I live for it.
But you’re still Carl.
Menace. And, emoji number two. We can skate that line together.
Anytime.