Every serious relationship I’ve had taught me the same lesson: love is temporary. People leave.
It’s safer to expect nothing. At least that way, you see it coming.
A message dings my phone.
Curious, I open it. And immediately wish I hadn’t.
Jackson?! His dirty dick is a perfect match for that rank ass pussy of yours, Chloe. Enjoy!
Whoa.
I blink. Then read it again.
It’s unhinged. Horrifying. And… kind of fascinating.
Who sends this?
More importantly, who receives this?
I should ignore it. Go to bed.
Mischief flares in my chest. It’s been a long day. And honestly, I could use the distraction.
My fingers fly across the keyboard. The words practically write themselves.
Wow. That’s... poetic.
An immediate response.
Fuck. You. Chloe!
Typing bubbles appear. Disappear.
Shit. Wrong number.
I snort.
Yep.
Who the hell is this?
Who do you want me to be? Chloe?
Anyone but Chloe.
Clearly.
And just like that, I’m texting a stranger. Which was not on my vision board for today. Yet, here I am.
You text like a stand-up comic testing material.
You text like you’re auditioning for the lead in Sad Boy: The Musical.
I’m not sad. Or musical.
Says the guy rage-texting about genital hygiene.
Moment of weakness.
