“This was your idea,” I groan, dragging my hands down my face. And as if I were talking to my child, I say, “You need to pee. Go.”
She wobbles to her feet, pointing at the screen. “Don’t respond without me.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
She disappears down the hall.
I stare at the laptop, heart still hammering.HowshouldI respond?
Another message pops up.
[Representative]:I have to know who it is to do the job.
I blink.
And type before I can overthink it.
[Guest]:Are you saying you actually consider requests through the internet? Because that’s concerning.
A pause. Typing bubble…
[Representative]:Only concerning if you’re not any good at your job.
I shift my legs beneath me, suddenly very aware of the way my skin feels too warm, how I’m still slightly humming from the last shot of the poison Demi poured for us.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
[Guest]:So, what’s the going rate? Asking for a friend.
The response is almost immediate.
[Representative]:Depends. You offering cash or something more… personal?
A slow pulse beats at the base of my throat.
[Guest]:Okay. So. Flirty murder guy. Not what I expected.
“Demi?” I call out.
A small almost-indistinguishable grunt comes from down the hall.
I push up from the floor, and my head swims. I swing my arms out to help my balance and shuffle to my bedroom like a dazed penguin. The light is on. Sprawled out on one side of my bed with one slipper still dangling from her toes is Demi.
She is done.
I sigh, grabbing a throw blanket and tossing it over her. “Guess you’re not coming back to the party.”
She makes a noise of agreement but doesn’t move.
I make my way back to the living room, intending to clean up, but after two minutes of picking up wrappers and shifting things around, I realize the room is swaying.I’m swaying.
Not to risk a head injury, I sink back onto the couch. The laptop screen still glowing.
A new message waits.
[Representative]:You’re not answering the question. That means one of two things… you’re thinking about what I said or you’re trying to figure out if this is a trap.
I smirk, shaking my head. Bad move. I inhale deeply, ordering my brain to stop spinning in my head. The last thing I need is for this person thinking I cannot write properly.
