now?
I picture her getting all amped up, and it makes me laugh into the silence of my apartment. It comes out sounding a little evil, but there’s no one here to hear it, so I don’t waste time focusing on it.
Instead, I type out another message and hit send.
Me: I’ve known Cassandra for a long time, and she isn’t one to say something she doesn’t mean. She’s a straight shooter. Like the John Wayne of publishing.
Maybe: Hmm… exactly how well do you know her? Like, are you guys friends, or are you guys “friendly”?
My eyebrows draw together.
Me: Is there a difference?
Maybe: Yes. Friends is friends. But friendly? That could mean all sorts of things. Like when Jimmy Thompson’s mom was “friendly” with the mailman when I was in second grade, and he ended up with a dog-phobic half-brother.
I laugh.
Me: You’re making that up.
Maybe: Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. The story doesn’t matter, Milo. What matters is that “friendly” means something different than friends.
I shake my head and type out a response. I glance over at my food. It’s got to be cold by now, but that’s what microwaves are for.
Me: We are just FRIENDS, kid. She went to Yale with me and Ev.
Maybe: Ah, okay. Not that it matters or anything. You’re free to be friendly with whomever you want. And she’s a pretty lady, so being friendly with her probably wouldn’t be bad.
Me: Maybe.
Maybe: Wait…are you saying my name or saying maybe it wouldn’t be bad being friendly with her?
Me: MABEL WILLIS, I have no intention of being friendly with Cassandra Cale now or ever.
Maybe: Oh. Well, all right. None of my business.
I shake my head and laugh out loud. I can’t help it. She’s a lunatic.
A fucking adorable lunatic, but a lunatic nonetheless.
Maybe: Well, I just want to say again, thank you for getting me that interview and helping me with this. I am forever grateful.
Me: No thanks needed. I’m glad to help.
Five minutes pass by without her saying anything else, so I dish out my food onto a plate and put it into the microwave. Just as the microwave announces it’s done, my phone buzzes again. I leave the food and pick up my phone again.
Maybe: Can I ask you something?
With the way this evening’s conversation has gone, there’s absolutely no telling what’s on her mind. And honestly, that’s kind of the fun part.
Me: Shoot.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and take a swig while the bubbles of her message that indicate she’s typing whirl.
Maybe: How often do you sext? A rough calculation is fine. Round up, round down, that sort of thing.
I spew water all over myself and the counter, and then quickly wipe it away from my face with the sleeve of my T-shirt.
She’s asking me about sexting? Where in the hell did this come from? Was it a typo?
Me: I’m sorry…did you say sext? As in text messaging about sex?
Maybe: Yes.
Part of me is thrilled about the prospect of talking about sex with this gorgeous woman. It’s so thrilled, it’s giving the idea a big ole standing ovation.
I groan and adjust my pants before rubbing at my eyes to try to make myself think with other, more rational parts of my body.
Maybe Willis is Evan’s little sister. I should not engage in talk about sexting with her.
Me: I don’t know if I’m really comfortable talking about this, kid. Sexting can get…intense.
Maybe: So, you have done it. You do it.
I groan and type out what I think is a fairly innocuous message. If she’s not going to drop it, I’ll just have to keep things in check.
Me: I mean, it’s not on my appointment calendar, but it’s happened before.
Maybe: What do you say when you sext?
Fucking hell. I bite my lip as my mind automatically plays through a list of things I want to say to her.
I dare you to rub your fingers over the top of your panties. But do it exactly how you love to touch yourself when the panties aren’t in the way.
Slide a finger inside yourself. But imagine it’s me. Imagine it’s my hard cock filling you up.
If I were there, I’d taste you. I’d slide my tongue inside you and feel how wet you are. And I’d rub my cock on your clit, make you beg me to slide inside you.
Shiiiit. I’m in so much trouble here.
I take a deep breath to recenter myself and succumb to the fact that I’m going to have a rock-hard