Page 18 of Sexting the Bikers

I stare at the phone like I can will the screen to break.

Another message pings through.

Dog:You good, Trouble? Because that didn’t sound like a party invite.

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

But the messages keep coming.

Dog:You in danger? Say the word. I’ll crash whatever cage they’ve put you in.

I close my eyes, pulse thudding in my throat.

I shouldn’t trust him.

I don’t even know him.

But I type anyway.

Me:Don’t come here.

A pause. Then:

Dog:Didn’t say I would.

Another beat. Another message pops up before I can decide whether to scream or throw the phone across the room.

Dog:But now I really want to.

I stare at the screen.

Dog is flirting. Hard.

And part of me knows I should shut it down, stay focused, keep my head clear.

But the other part—the part that knows men like him—sees a door swinging open.

He wants to be the hero? Let him. Maybe I can use that.

I climb onto the bed, back against the headboard, phone warm in my hand. My heart’s still pounding, but for a different reason now.

Use him,I tell myself.You’ve done worse to survive.

I type, slowly.

Me:You really that desperate to rescue a damsel in distress?

The reply comes fast.

Dog:Nah. Just curious what kind of trouble comes with that mouth.

I feel the flush crawl up my neck before I can stop it. I should be annoyed. Offended.

Instead, my legs shift under the blanket.

Focus.