Page 3 of Ronan

Sometimes I really wonder what’s wrong with people. I knew customer service was tough, but I accepted my current job because it wouldn’t require me to talk on the phone. The only way to reach us is online through a chat bot. Easy, right?

Wrong.

What most people don’t know is that we can see what they’re typing before they hit send.

It’s supposed to help us get an inkling of what they need so we can get answers faster, but in my experience, it only gives us a glimpse into the horrible things people would say if they weren’t afraid of the consequences.

It would hurt my feelings if I had any.

After four hours of nearly being called just about every name in the book, I stop to take a lunch break.

Even though people are terrible creatures, I get to work from home, so I get up from my desk in the corner of our living room, grab a snack, and plop down on our sectional to take part in my favorite hobby.

I bet Nocturno, Nightbreed, and my favorite Ghost cosplayer wouldn’t call me a vapid cunt. A dirty little slut, maybe. A cocksleeve, absolutely. A good little whore... hopefully. But not a vapid cunt.

I’m alternating between Wheat Thins and scrolling thirst traps when I see it. It’s Nightbreed, but not his normal kind of video. This one’s different. This one is calling for action, and has a pretty big prize to back it up.

One thirty-minute FaceTime call in exchange for the most unhinged thirst comment. I could win that hands down, but I can’t. I can’t. I’m too embarrassed to even like their videos, let alone comment. How would I handle it if one of them called me?

Fuck. But if I don’t, someone else will, and they’ll be living my dream for thirty straight minutes. Fucking hell.

I sit here so long arguing with myself about it that my alarm goes off telling me it’s time to go back to work.

So whoever wins will have the best thirty minutes of their lives while I just wasted thirty minutes of my own.

I need to go outside, meet people, maybe touch a little grass. This is getting out of hand.

But every moment that passes after that makes our apartment feel a little smaller, a little quieter except for the pipes banging and old wood settling.

It’s almost as though our decrepit, run-down building is trying to remind me that if I don’t get over my social anxiety soon, I’ll be forced to adopt fifty dogs and live on a farm somewhere until the pigs eat my body.

... okay, maybe it’s not that serious. It may just be a thirst trap online, but to me, it feels like a metaphor for my entire life. If I’m too scared to jump, I’ll be trapped in this shitty apartment watching everyone else move on without me.

I really need to grow some balls.

––––––––

“Did you see it?” Emma asks, dropping her lunch box on the table and kicking off her shoes. “Tell me you saw it.”

Ugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. ”

She looks at me like she knows I’m lying, but waves me off to go pee before she says anything else. When she comes back, I recognize the look on her face. “The fucking sink in the bathroom is fucked up again.”

“Mmhm.”

“Didn’t he just fix it last week?”

“Mmhm,” I repeat. Our apartment is gorgeous on the inside — we’ve made it a goal to make it look much nicer than it really is, but it’s a structural shitshow. Everything breaks. Constantly. “I’ll call him.”

Groaning, she plops down on the couch and begins wiping off her makeup with wipes, multiple dark hickies coming into view as she works on her neck. “Speaking of calls. I know you saw it, so please tell me you commented.”

Here we go. “No. What the hell would I say to him if he called me?”

“Nice voice, now let me see your dick,” she deadpans. “I don’t imagine the conversation is going to be anything earth-shattering. We both know you just want to know which way it curves, so don’t overthink it, girl. And that’s if you even win.”

Popping open a bottle of wine, I pour a generous glass and curl up on the couch next to her. “I’ve never had phone sex. ”

“Never?” she asks incredulously. “Not even in middle school?”

My eyes widen, but I choose not to touch that one with a ten-foot pole. “No, never. I didn’t start doing anything until high school, and it was pretty much all in person. I’ve sent a couple dirty texts, but nothing on the phone. I’m no good under pressure.”

“Damn, girl. Okay, imagine being on the other end of a call, and this man wants you so fucking badly he’s touching himself and imagining you and only you. You’re the only one that can make him come.”

“I’m not saying I don’t understand it or that it doesn’t sound appealing, I’m just —” getting embarrassed again — “never mind. Fine, you want me to comment? I’ll comment.”

Snatching my phone, I head to his page and click on the video.

I don’t look at his gorgeous body, the skull mask he’s wearing, or re-read the caption this time.

I jump straight to the comments and type, “You could choke me to death with it and still have a couple of hours of fun before my body goes cold. Don’t worry, my ghost will cum too. ”

Hanging my phone to her, I ask, “Is that unhinged enough? ”

“Holy shit!” Emma laughs so hard a snort sneaks out. “Girl, if you don’t win, he’s a fucking loser.”

“If I don’t win, he’s probably just scared by necrophilia,” I giggle. “I don’t actually want to die — on a cock or not — but some of those other comments were gold. Go big or die, I guess.”

“That’s my girl. Can I tell Dumbfuck about that comment? He’d get a kick out of it.”

Telling him means there’s a possibility my step-brother will hear about it, and that makes me squirm.

Ronan is... intense. He always has been.

When we first met, I was twelve and he was fourteen.

He was older, cool, popular for the most part.

He hadn’t fully entered his bad boy stage yet that took him from popular to notorious, and I had a huge crush on him.

A huge one. But eventually, I got a little older and realized crushing on your step-brother is gross and I’ve tried not to think about it since.

But he’s... exactly my type. And while we’re not as close as we used to be, a big part of me still wants him to think I’m cool. What would he say if he knew I was commenting shit like that on strangers’ social media accounts ?

“I’d rather you didn’t tell him, but something tells me you’re gonna do it anyway.”

“It’s not like he’ll tell the world what you said. He only has one friend anyway, and Ronan is always interested in all things you.”

She glances at me sideways to gauge my reaction, which I try to keep under control. Me? Why? He rarely texts or calls me, and when we’re all hanging out together, he treats me just like anyone else. “What do you mean?”

Something dances in her gaze as she turns to face me better.

“Exactly what I said. He plays it off and pretends he isn’t listening if I mention anything about you, but his jaw does this pulsing thing or he’ll grip his glass tighter.

I’m sure he just wants to know you’re doing okay, but you know him. All of him is intense.”

“Or maybe he hates me,” I offer quietly. “Jaw ticking, glass squeezing... those aren’t typically good signs.”

“Hate isn’t the energy I feel coming off of him in the moment, and if he hated you he wouldn’t have so many follow-up questions.”

Like I have right now ?

I want to pick her brain and find out every little thing he’s ever said about me, but I’ll die before I admit out loud that my childhood crush has come back with a vengeance. “Oh.” It’s all I say as I shrug it off, then open TikTok again.

With any luck, Nightbreed will pick someone else, Emma won’t realize I kind of want to fuck my brother, and things will go back to normal.

But when has that ever happened?