The tough practice and back-to-back matches wore everybody down, so I didn’t expect a text from Ezra the next day, asking me to meet, mentioning that he had something he’d like to show me. I was surprised would be an understatement.
Normally, I’d deny him and wouldn’t even have to make any excuses for it–normally, he wouldn’t even ask me something like this, because this isn’t us, we don’t share texts like this–but today, as I wake up well into the morning, checking my phone with squinted eyes with my limbs still entangled in my duvet, I try and spectacularly fail to resist the urge to agree. I’m curious to find what Ezra is up to, and the only way I can do that is to entertain his text.
You do remember that curiosity killed the cat, despite its nine lives, right?
My brain does its job to unhelpfully remind me of what a terrifically bad idea this is. But do I do what I know I should and listen to the warningmy brain issues?
Absolutely.
Not.
Nipping on my lower lip, I let my fingers dance over the digital keyboard. “Fuck it, what could go wrong?” I mumble to myself. Only, I don’t realize everything that could.
Ezra: Can we meet? I’d like to show you something.
Me: You sure you texted the right person?
I didn’t think he’d come online right away, but when I see the three dots blinking on the screen of my phone, my heart threatens to jump out of my chest, smashing my ribs in the process as my breath hitches.
Then my phone chimes, and I greedily drink in his words.
Ezra: *eye roll gif*
Ezra: I’m sure, Kaeli.
I could see him doing just that while emphasizing my name to make me understand that he means it. I scoff in the silence of my room.
Me: *hands raised in surrender gif*
Me: Don’t get your panties in a twist. Just checking. You do realize we don’t do this, right?
Satisfied with the text, I press send. The banter and quips at each other are who we are. I hold my breath, awaiting his response to the last sentence. But I had to point it out, make sure that he knows what he’s doing.
Ezra: Don’t worry. I’m not taking you out on a date. It’s for your social media content. I think this could do some value addition.
His reply makes sense and is perfectly logical. It should make me feel relieved, ease my worries about this being something it shouldn’t be.
Yet, his words wash over me like a tidal wave, causing a sinking feeling to grow in the pit of my stomach. Because, of course, he’s texting me for something work-related. Why else would he?
Just because he made me come with his fingers, because we shared a few stolen kisses, doesn’t make us friends. It doesn’t make us anything. He’s still the man I hate. And I’m still the woman he can’t stand. If anything, I’m just another notch on his bedpost.
So, I do what I do best when it comes to Ezra Moore: I ignore that troublesome feeling and focus on the matter at hand.
Me: You wish!
Before giving him a chance to say something that would intensify the feeling I’m hell-bent on not acknowledging, I send another text.
Me: Fine. Just tell me when and where? And what can I wear?
Ezra: Personally, I’d prefer you wear nothing. But I highly doubt you’re into exhibitionism or public indecency, so wear something comfortable.
I exhale a relieved breath. Yes. This is safe territory, the one where we pick on each other. I don’t respond to his message, and soon he lets me know that he’ll come to pick me up in a couple of hours and asks for my address.
Letting my phone drop on the bed, I stare at the ceiling. Even though I know this is nothing more than work, my pulse still thrums at the prospect of seeing him, being alone with him.
God, I’ve no idea what to expect from today. AllI know is that this pent-up and bubbling energy from skirting around the idea of finally having sex with him inside of me is desperate for an outlet.
* * *
