Page 8

Lorelai

Buzz. Buzz.

Lori groaned and rolled over, scrambling for her cell and hitting the side button to shut it up. Then she burrowed her head into her pillow and tried to go back to sleep.

Her eyes slid closed. Her breathing slowed—

Buzz. Buzz.

“Ugh,” she muttered, scrabbling for her phone again. Her fingers closed around the case, bringing it up to her face, and glancing at the too-bright screen with scrunched up eyes.

Fuck, that was intense.

Buzz. Buzz.

Squinting, she looked at the home screen, saw a trail of three texts.

Hey, baby, the first one read. I’m so glad I met you tonight.

I hope that you really DO want this, the second one said.

The third one . . . was a picture.

Call it stupidity, or perhaps it was just because she’d been woken up in the middle of the night and her brain was mush, but for whatever reason, Lori touched the text bubble with the picture.

A second later, the screen unlocked.

And then—

“Um . . .” She blinked, looked again. “Um. Wow .”

There on the screen was . . . holy balls—no pun intended—but there were . . . well, balls and a penis and abs and—

Look, she’d seen her fair share of dick pics, being a single woman in her early thirties. They seemed to appear in her inbox in uninvited droves and while this one was definitely not invited, it was also . . . kind of the best she’d ever seen.

Her phone buzzed again, and she glanced at the screen.

You there?

Lori froze, eyes glued to the picture and knowing she had a choice to make. One to pretend to be whoever you was in order to obtain more photos. Gross, but it had been a long time since she’d . . . fine, here was her inner perv talking, seen a penis in the flesh.

Ick. Not the best thought.

But it was two in the morning, she’d been an idiot to not have her phone on Do Not Disturb, and . . . it had been A. Really. Long. Time.

However, even being pent-up sexually, she still had enough of a moral center that she felt the need to respond to the man and tell him he had the wrong number.

But maybe if she waited long enough, she might get another pic?

Just one to look at—briefly—before she’d promptly delete it and—

Her eyes drifted back down to her phone, to the words this time, and her pesky conscience reared its head. Sighing, she let her fingers work on the keyboard.

You have the wrong number.

Silence.

Several long minutes of silence.

Then,

Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry.

She couldn’t help it—she laughed, but sent back,

It’s . . . not okay, I guess. But don’t worry. I’ll delete it and we can pretend it never happened.

A beat.

Thank you. And again, I’m so sorry.

Which was the point she couldn’t help herself from replying with,

Next you send a dick pic, leave off your head.

Lori winced.

The head attached to your neck, not the one on your . . . well . . . *finger pointing down emoji*

There was no response for a long time. But eventually her cell vibrated again and—

Noted.

Sighing and sending out sad, pathetic thoughts to the universe for having to be a good person and noting that she’d better get some good karma for being nice about an unsolicited dick pic in the middle of the night, she deleted the photo.

Then sent a screen shot of their chain—sans pic—as proof to the mysterious, albeit gorgeous man with the yummiest cock she’d ever laid eyes on that she had, in fact, deleted the photo.

A buzz.

Thanks.

She wrinkled her nose and flopped onto her back, wide awake and huffy about it. Then made huffier when her phone vibrated again.

Um. Does that thing happen a lot?

Me receiving unwanted photos of penises? Or the man sending them apologizing?

Either. Both.

She grinned.

Yes to the first. No to the second.

Fuck. Men are assholes.

At least the latest one had a pretty face.

And a pretty something else, but that was beside the point. Lori set her cell on the bedside table again and started to lie back.

Buzz. Buzz.

“Oh my fucking God,” she muttered and scooped up her phone, glaring at the screen as she read.

Then her lips twitched.

How about you send me your pretty face?

The man either had the slickest game on the planet or he was seriously horrible at reading the opposite sex.

That’s a no.

Though, she was the one who kept engaging, so what did that make her?

Rolling her eyes, she turned on Do Not Disturb, placed her cell on the bedside table—for the final time—and then cuddled back under the blankets.

She had to get up in four hours. She was going to sleep, and that would happen right now.

Right. Now.

Right—

Fuck it, she was going to look.

Flipping to her side, she reached for her phone, tilting it up just enough to see the screen. A response was there. Of course, it was. But nope. She was not opening it. No way. No how. No—

Oh, look. Her Face ID magically unlocked the screen and loaded her messages.

Please?

She snorted.

Nope.

Pretty please with sugar on top?

What are you? Five?

I’m thirty-five, actually. And totally helpless when it comes to women.

I can see that.

Ouch.

A beat before he sent,

So now will you show me your face?

She shook her head. This man was persistent, if nothing else.

Going into the creepy territory, Mr. Thirty-Five.

Victory!

*thinking emoji*

I’m no longer helpless. I’m creepy.

Lori couldn’t help it. She outright laughed. Oh boy, this man was something else.

You do realize it’s almost three in the morning, right?

You’re the one responding to my messages.

You’re the one who sent the filthy dick pic in the first place.

She asked for it!

Her lips curved. Now, this was a story she had to hear. Lori sat up, tucking her fuzzy purple comforter under her arms as she went. A moment later, she’d fluffed the pillows up behind her back and then flicked on the light. Only once she was comfortable did she send a reply.

How exactly did she “ask for it?”

The little “. . .” bubble appeared at the bottom of the screen. Then disappeared. Then reappeared and stayed there for a while. The reply that buzzed into her cell made her understand why it took a while. He’d sent a dissertation.

Well, there was this girl in the bar. Hannah.

Okay, I’m not the type of person to go to bars usually, but I’m new in town and jet-lagged and I figured it was better than just staying in my condo staring at the empty walls since only half of my furniture arrived and none of that arrived furniture included my TV.

Also, I have no internet because they’re coming tomorrow.

There was a pause here where she assumed he was waiting for her to respond and so she did.

Tell me more.

More bubbles appearing and disappearing until her cell vibrated.

So I went out looking for a diner or coffee shop or whatever, but the only place that was open was a bar—

She snorted. Sure, it was.

I had a couple of drinks—

Another snort. A couple, right.

Next thing I know, Hannah came over and we spent a few hours eating, drinking, and talking but then she had to go. Before she left, though, she wrote her number on my hand—

How very high school.

—and told me to text her something she could use to relax her later—and here, she patted my crotch—

Wow.

I mean, who does that? She could have just put the number in my phone. Anyway, by the time my drunk ass got over the feel of her hand on my cock and I’d really processed what she’d done, she was gone, and I was paying a big bill.

She pressed her lips together.

You seem awfully sober now.

A beat then,

Being the type of asshole to send an unsolicited dick pic will do that to a man.

She snorted.

I’m not sure that’s true.

Well, true or not, I obviously got played.

Lori considered all that then sent,

Pictures, or it isn’t true.

There was a long silence before she got a reply.

Um, isn’t that what got us into this problem in the first place?

She grinned.

I meant of the number this Hannah wrote on your hand.

Oh.

A few seconds later, her cell buzzed, and another pic appeared on her screen.

This one was also naked, but because it was a picture of a naked palm, it was less exciting.

Though those thick fingers, yo. And . . .

she was an idiot, but it was now after three in the morning, she was texting a stranger, and so she was allowed to be a bit delirious.

Shaking her head, she focused on the photo.

Sure enough, there was a scrawling phone number on his skin.

Except—

That’s not a 1.

What?

At the end. That’s a 7.

Lori's stomach was clenching tighter than during her Pilates class. Okay, bad analogy, but the point was that she was trying not to laugh. Trying didn’t mean she succeeded. In fact, she failed miserably and missed the next three texts her mystery man had sent.

That’s a 1.

Oh my fucking God, that’s NOT a 1.

Kill me. Now.

By the time she could breathe again, or at least by the time her laughter had been reduced to giggles, several minutes had passed.

Then her phone buzzed again.

It’s a 7.

Lori grinned, almost able to hear the defeat in his tone, even though all she had was words on a screen. But this man, whoever he was, had personality.

I’m going to go throw myself off a bridge.

She paused, concern now mixing with amusement.

Is this joking or are you actually suicidal? Because, in the grand scheme of things, a dick pic isn’t the end of the world. I’m not emotionally scarred and plus, I deleted it.

A beat, then,

Too bad you can’t delete my unending shame.

But seriously, I’m sorry . . . about everything. The picture. The comments—that was insensitive. I’m not that kind of guy.

Hmm. Well, that was interesting.

Why type of guy are you?

No reply. For a solid three minutes. For long enough that Lori realized she’d clearly pushed the wrong button and no matter how pretty his dick or how interesting his text personality was, they were done. An hour of texting and strangely, she found that disappointing.

Sighing, she plugged her cell back in.

Well, another one driven away. Somehow that wasn’t surprising in the least. Too bad this time she hadn’t even known his name.

Her eyes slid closed, sleep finally welled up and surrounded her, and she fell head-long into darkness.

And missed the final buzz-buzz from the mystery man.

Missed him saying,

I’m . . . I don’t know who I am.