I pressed send.
Chapter 7
Jacks
My couch had a Jacks-shaped indent in the left cushion. This was either a sign of excellent furniture or a sign that I spent way too much time in one spot.
Probably the second one.
But after a Friday night shift like tonight’s, though, I didn’t have the energy to care.
I was showered, changed into sweats that had seen better days, and horizontal with a bowl of sugary cereal balanced on my chest. The TV was on but muted, some late-night talk show host interviewing someone I didn’t recognize.
My phone sat on the coffee table, occasionally lighting up with messages from the Barbacks group chat that neither knew boundaries nor appropriate texting hours. Finn was doing a postmortem on the Space Duke, as we’d dubbed him. He’d even created AI images depicting a photorealistic versionof George Jetson in royal regalia standing with one foot on the wing of an odd-looking spaceship. AI had given him six fingers on one hand, which oddly, made the pic even more apropos.
Benji had cross-referenced the guy’s name from his signature on his credit card slip and somehow found the guy’s dating profile. I was reminded to hide all my passwords from the naughty little ninja.
Benji: He says he’s 6’2.
Benji: That man was 5’9” in lifts.
Benji: The lies began before they even met.
Finn: Go to sleep, Benji.
Benji: How can I sleep when there’s a hobbit-sized-space-creeper out there preying on the innocent gays of our city?
Mark: Please stop calling him that.
Benji: Space Duke Forever! All Hail!
I snorted and set the phone down.
Benji would go on like this for another hour at least. The man had the energy of someone who’d mainlined espresso directly into his bloodstream, even at midnight.
I crunched my cereal until there was nothing left but a little milk, set the bowl on the table, and considered my options. I could go to bed like a responsible adult, watch whatever was happening on TV, or I could scroll through my phone until my eyes stopped working and sleep sucked me into its blessed embrace.
Option three won.
I snatched my phone and opened Instagram, flicking through one story after another.
Someone’s vacation photos.
An ad for meal kits.
Benji’s behind-the-scenes video of tonight’s shift, already posted, already racking up likes from our regulars.
A red notification bubble sat in the corner of the screen.
My DMs.
“More spam,” I grumbled aloud. I got those all the time, random accounts trying to sell me supplements or crypto or whatever scam was popular that week. I almost ignored it, but my thumb tappedanyway.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Hey
I sat up so fast the empty cereal bowl went flying, clattering off the coffee table and spinning onto the floor.
Skyler Shaw.
