Wrong Number:Please.
It's the please that does it. The please that makes me think maybe he's as lost in this insanity as I am. My finger hovers over the call button. Once I hear his voice, there's no going back. Voices stick. Voices haunt you during surgery, during showers, during the quiet moments when your brain decides to replay every bad decision you've ever made.
But my finger presses down anyway, because apparently, I'm committed to this particular form of self-destruction.
One ring. Two.
"Fuck," he says instead of hello, and his voice—
His voice sounds like gravel soaked in whiskey, like he's been yelling or smoking or both, like every bad decision I've ever wanted to make condensed into a single word.
"Hi," I say, because I'm articulate like that.
"Hi."
Silence stretches between us. Not comfortable, not uncomfortable, just... charged. Like the moment before defibrillation when everyone steps back and waits for the shock.
"This is—" I start.
"Insane?" he finishes.
"I was going to say inadvisable."
"That too."
More silence. I can hear him breathing, can hear what sounds like tools clinking in the background.
"Are you in a garage?" I ask.
"Are you in bed?"
"I asked first." I play with the material of my comforter.
"Yeah, garage. You?"
"Bed."
"With José?"
I laugh—actually laugh—and it surprises us both.
"José's on the nightstand. We're taking things slow."
"Respectful. I like it."
God, his voice.It's doing things to me that should be illegal.
"Tell me something true," I say, borrowing his game from earlier texts.
"That's dangerous, angel."
"I sent you a photo of my vibrator. We passed dangerous six exits ago."
He laughs, and it's rusty, like he doesn't do it often.
"Fair." A pause. Tools moving. "My sister died two years ago. OD'd on fentanyl-laced coke."
The words hit like blunt force trauma. No preparation, no warning, just impact.
