“Cassie…” I pointed in her direction, but it was too late. She was already standing on top of our coffee table, using the remote for a microphone.
My best friend had this thing with making parody songs out of pretty much anything when inspired. And she didn’t do it quietly. No way, quiet was not Cassie’s style. She sang like she was Adele performing at the Grammys.
“I call this one White House Lovin’,” Cassie announced.
I groaned but secretly couldn’t wait to see what she would come up with. Think Kristen Wiig on Saturday Night Live kind of hilarious shit. That was Cass.
“Blue-dress intern, found my pants fast…”
“White House intern, it was a blast…”
She was singing her little heart out.
“This girl, she was crazy for D…”
Snapping fingers. Pelvic thrusts. Head bobs. Cassie wasn’t missing a beat.
“Met the prez, down on both knees…”
One verse in and the dick pic bandit had been forgotten. I hopped off the couch and tackled her to the floor. She screamed. I laughed. And five minutes later, Cassie was back on the coffee table while I sang backup to the rest of her ridiculous song.
Tell me, whore… Tell me, whore…
Admit it, you’re singing it too.
Later that night, once I had cozied myself in bed and was so very close to reaching that heavenly REM cycle, the ping of my phone pecked at me. I groaned my way out of Dreamland slowly. God, it was time to make some major life changes. For example, the alert settings for my TapNext profile in my phone. It was either that or murder, and I’m the kind of person who likes to dip a toe in the pool water to test it rather than cannonball my way in.
Rubbing a hand over my face, I forced my eyes opened and snatched the phone off my antique nightstand. I barely resisted the urge to slam it back down, thus breaking it into a million tiny pieces. Luckily, my rational thinking wasn’t as sleepy as the rest of me and realized the amount of work that would result from such an impulsive decision.
Cleaning and shopping and transferring my contacts, oh my.
Yeah, screw that.
BAD_Ruck (2:09AM): It’s NOT my dick.
It’s not his dick?
What the double actual fuck?
No. Nope. This was so not the right time to deal with this bullshit.
Not. Answering.
The sides of my pillow exploded upward with the force of my punch and made the perfect cushion for my face when it slammed down beside my hand. I had so much shit to do at work tomorrow, and dealing with BAD_Ruck and his proclivity for awful crotch selfies and unintelligible responses was not going to be on my agenda.
I was focused on getting shut-eye, confident that sleep and I would spoon the fuck out of each other until the sun rose the following morning. I channeled Buddha for my inner Zen, humming my way toward unconscious bliss. It was either that, or grab my vibrator and participate in a ménage à moi.
Thankfully, my return to sleep came easily that night. No hands-on approach required.
The next day, while I was getting ready for work, I decided to give BAD_Ruck a piece of my mind. I spit toothpaste into the sink, rinsed my mouth out with water, and turned off the faucet. Striding into my room with purpose, I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and sent the dick gremlin a response.
Suck. On. That. Buddy.
TAPRoseNEXT (7:03AM): Then it’s someone else’s dick? WORSE. Threat Level EXPLODED.
“Good morning, Mr. Brooks.”
“Good morning, Frank,” I replied, picking my head up from the crime scene on my phone just long enough to meet his honest amber eyes before sliding into the soft leather seat of my Town Car.
Fucking Thatch.
I swear, somehow he took doing what would already be really fucking annoying and advanced it to the next level. If he didn’t have the same ability with money, I probably would have dropped him by now.
To the bottom of the ocean. With a cinder block attached to his ankles.
She was right, of course. Sending a picture of someone else’s dick was considerably worse than sending a picture of your own.
Especially this one.
Three rings trilled in my ear before his sleep-laden voice forced one hungover syllable past his lips. “’Lo?”
“A dick, Thatch? Really?” I asked immediately, pinching the bridge of my nose to stave off a headache.
No amount of lingering alcohol could stop his answering laugh.
His throat cleared a little more with each chuckle, and by the time he responded, he was speaking clearly. “You’re the one using my picture for your profile, bro. It was only fair that I unleashed the gargoyle dick.”
Gargoyle dick. Too fucking right. A winglike knob, a hunchback, and questionable coloring all lent themselves to his description. I’d left my phone on the bar without hawk-eyeing it for two fucking minutes, and the asshole had somehow managed to send one of the world’s worst illicit pictures to some poor—now blind—woman in that time.
“That profile was only payback for the last awful thing you did to me.”
“Which was?” he asked, altogether too amused.