don’t bother to ask him the question in return. He’s told me his lifestyle, I’m well-aware he’s been with all ages.
Alec: Does it bother you?
Me: No.
My phone suddenly vibrates in my hand with Alec’s incoming call.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” I scold in jest when I answer.
“I could ask you the same thing.” His voice is low with the right amount of masculine rasp and no hint of a Boston accent. It’s a voice that matches his photo. “I took the rest of the day off. I’m at home.”
“I know you live in Boston proper, but what part is it that you call home?”
“Back Bay area. I live in a studio loft next to Charles River.”
“Right across from Cambridge,” I note. “My assistant lives there.” There’s a noisy rustling in the phone. “What are you doing?”
“Lying down. What are you doing?”
“In the middle of the day? Must be nice.”
“You never take an afternoon off to relax?”
He asks this question assuming my lies as truth, that I’m single and free of children. I honestly can’t remember the last time I took an afternoon nap.
“Take a break from writing,” he says on a laid-back sigh, and I imagine him settling into his bed.
I hesitate but then decide to set work aside for once and do something out of my norm. “Okay. I guess I’ll be lazy too.”
I set the phone down on the bed and take off my shoes, socks, and running pants, and when I slip under the covers and lie down, I grab the phone and exaggerate my words as I stretch out my legs, saying, “It feels so good to lie down.”
His laugh is throaty, and I join in when I note the awkwardness of the situation.
“This is a bit strange.”
“It wouldn’t have to be, but you seem to have something against meeting me for coffee,” he says, his voice growing lighter as he relaxes more. “Why are you so hesitant to meet me?”
Because I’ve lied to you about who I am.
I dodge his question entirely, tuck myself deeper under the sheets, and ask, “You do this often?”
“What? Lie in bed with a woman over the phone? No. But you’re a peculiar one, so I’ll take what I can get.”
“Hmmm,” I breathe into the phone as I close my eyes, sinking into the mattress and enjoying the reprieve.
Neither one of us speaks as time passes. His breaths begin to lull me into placidity as I rest on each of his inhales and exhales.
“Victoria.”
My only response is a gentle hum.
“Touch yourself.”
My eyes pop open and the stillness in the air disappears.
“What?”
“Touch yourself,” he repeats.
His request throws me for a spin and a nervous giggle slips out before I tell him, “No.”
I can hear the smile on his lips when he questions, “Why not?”
“Because that’s weird.”
“Why?”
“Because it just is.” I push myself up and lean against the headboard. “I don’t even know you.”
“That excuse no longer works. We spend hours on the phone every day talking to each other. You know a lot more about me than most, and I’ll bet that I know more about you than most.”
He makes a point in that I have shared with him parts of myself and my past that I normally keep private.
“Put your hand between your legs,” he pushes, and I resist again. “Tell me what you’re wearing.”
“Alec.”
“You touch yourself anyway. Why not do it with me?”
Closing my eyes, I fight the urge to laugh him off and change the subject. The idea of doing something that’s outside of my comfort zone is a titillating thought, but it isn’t me. Sure, I used to dirty text Landon when we first started dating, but we never had phone sex.
“I’m looking at the photo you sent me,” he says, but I don’t respond as I contemplate my next move.
It’s not like I even know this man. Yes, we’ve been talking a lot, but I don’t know him in the flesh, and I never will. I’m nothing more than a lie to him. As real as it may feel, it simply isn’t. It’s a game. It’s fun. It’s anything but real.
“The thought of you lying next to me has me hard right now.”
His voice breaks my reluctance for a moment, and I do what I can to push myself to do something I would never do in real life. Because this isn’t real. It’s simply a false perception of reality I’ve created for my entertainment.
I shift back down under the sheets, and when I glide