My fingers hovered over the message bar like they were possessed. Though likening anxiety to possession while staring at a demon’s abs might not be themostcorrect thing to say, it was true.
My eyes lifted from my screen to look around the mostly abandoned parking lot of my work, save for the nighttime security and a few janitors that were only just starting to leave.
Come on Harper.
A groan slipped past my lips as I looked back down at the message.
It seems we are a match.
Well, fuck.
Say something cute. Something flirty. Normal.Except this wasn’t normal. I shouldn’t be doing this.
You say that like it’s a problem…
The reply hit almost instantly. Like he was just waiting on the other side of the screen with claws poised over the keys.
Not at all. Have you done something like this before?
Straight to the point. No hesitation.
Getting right to it, are we?
I am sorry if this feels rushed. I am… eager. To get off these blockers. And it’s important we respect boundaries. These things can be… intense.
Oh good. Totally fine. Nothing to worry about. Just your run-of-the-mill match with a demon on a dating app that was very likely illegal, meant to manage sex-hormones, talking about boundaries and blockers like we were summoning something ancient with a hard-on.
It’s okay Harper.
You can flirt. You can be sexy.
I get that. Well, I am here to please ;) as long as we both respect each other, I don’t have any boundaries written in stone. You name a time and place. You saw my prices I listed?
Okay, maybe that was too much. Maybe it screamed “just trying to pay my rent” more than “seductive mystery woman.”
The typing bubbles bounced around the screen before a blue message finally popped up.
They are more than agreeable. If you can agree to six sessions, I will pay you the full amount up-front, with an additional for travel costs. It is important that this is done at my home. It would be safer.
Six sessions?
That much money could get a half decent apartment. Maybe finally fix my brakes. Hell, I could take a trip. Paris. Spain. Italy. Anywhere with flaky pastries, no reception, and all the most beautiful smells I could make perfumes of.
Still—and not to look a gift horse in the mouth—I had to be safe about this.
What if you are some sort of serial killer?
Is that something you are into or something you are worried about?
And I laughed—like, actual out-loud laughed—in my car like a crazy person. It felt good. Terrifying. But good. I couldn’t remember the last time Chad made me laugh. Or tried to.
Well, I mean, I think I would like to get through the night with a pulse if you don’t mind.
I think I can manage that.
Okay. Deep breath.
So, Mr. Possibly a Serial Killer, when did you have in mind?
