chicken. My grandfather’s hard work may have lined his grandchildren’s pockets with money, but that doesn’t mean I’m a snob. Usually, two tablespoons of peanut butter get me through the night before I slather it on toast in the morning.
I’m three quarters the way through my meal, and almost comatose when my cell phone dings, announcing I have a text message. Considering the late hour, I’m confident it’s Grayson, so you can imagine my surprise when I discover it’s a text from an unknown number.
Unknown number: What are you wearing?
Assuming they have the wrong number, I reply.
Me: I think you have the wrong number.
Curious, I watch the three dots float across the screen instead of finishing my dinner.
Unknown number: Blond, five-eleven, 170ish pounds with a cute, although slightly wonky smile.
Cute?
Through twisted lips, I tap out my reply.
Me: Sounds about right. I still think you have the wrong number, though.
Unknown number: It’s egotistical to think your smile is cute, BJ.
As I sit up straighter in my bed, my heart races. There’s only one person young enough to be up this late who calls me BJ. She’s in another state, engaged to another man. But that doesn’t matter, right? We’re texting, not organizing a hook-up. This is a perfectly acceptable form of communication for once best friends.
Now I just need my cock to get the memo. With the taste of peanuts on my lips, it’s not recalling any of the years Melody and I were friends. It’s remembering the time Melody obliterated my love of peanut butter by making it an obsession.
Ignoring the throbbing rod of flesh sitting heavy on my thigh, my fingers fly across the screen of my phone.
Me: It’s only egotistical if it isn’t untrue.
A grin curls my lips when Melody’s reply pops up. She doesn’t use any words. She just sends an eyeroll emoji.
I could let that be the end of our conversation, but with my brain a little mushy from a lack of sleep and way too many carbs, I tap out a reply.
Me: Do you still want to know what I’m wearing?
Good one, Brandon. Slot straight into creeper mode, you fucking creep.
I stop inwardly lecturing myself when Melody’s reply sends my cock from semi-aroused to painfully thick in an instant.
Unknown number: I’d rather see for myself.
Before I can reprimand myself for not wearing underwear, the message screen on my phone is replaced by an incoming FaceTime request.
As my thumb hovers over the connect button, I scan my room. Don’t ask me why. There’s nothing in here but a giant bed, one I’m-so-fucking-alone-I-only-need-one-bedside-table and me in dowdy sweatpants that don’t have a chance in hell of hiding my raging boner. I can see the outline of my cock, and I’m under a bedspread for crying out loud.
Panicked Melody’s call is about to ring out, I hit the connect button. Well, that’s the excuse I plan to use when this backfires in my face. After licking my dry lips, I raise my phone in front of myself like this is something I do often. The novelty of this type of communication is showcased in the worst way when I peer past the person taking up a majority of the screen to seek Melody behind Agent Russell’s smiling face and dark locks.
When I fail to find any indication that Melody is anywhere in the vicinity, I stray my eyes back to the pair peering at me curiously. Agent Russell tries to play off my confusion with a playful taunt. “Sweats. Good choice. I was hoping you had changed into something comfortable before digging in. A stretchy waistband is very much a requirement for all the food I purchased.” When I remain staring at her like a fish out of water, she twists her lips. “Was it good?”
I do a weird head nod shake thingy. “It was okay. I didn’t touch the abalone, though.”
“Not a fan of shark?”
My nose screws up. “I don’t mind the occasional serve of flake. It was the snails I was disinterested in.”
With a laugh, Agent Russell sinks deeper into a padded material that resembles the headboard I couldn’t be fucked buying for my bed since I never invite anyone into my room to see it before hugging an empty glass of wine into her chest. “I’m not a fan either, but the cook from the Chinese restaurant one block from your apartment assured me it was your favorite.”
“You asked the cook at a Chinese restaurant that I’ve never dined at what my favorite dish was,