Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108636 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108636 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
He’s not lying. The last time we went out and Ron imbibed in some Jack, he ended up getting kicked out of Neon for dragging a fucking sofa onto the dance floor and jumping around on it.
Ronnie: But I likes it.
Mav: Shut up, Ron.
Ronnie: K.
Henry: How you feeling, Beau? You take a good shit and get all that toxic energy out of your system after I left your condo?
After work this evening, Henry and I weight-trained in my condo’s gym before heading out on a six-mile run. He bitched about being tired the whole damn time.
Me: Don’t blame the fact that you couldn’t keep up with me today on anything other than yourself. Maybe you need to train a little harder.
Henry: You were running on pure rage, dude. A fucking cheetah couldn’t have kept up with you.
Me: Rage? I’m nothing but kumbaya, son.
Henry: HA. That’s bullshit. You want me to send you the Fitness app data? We set an all-time personal record. Or maybe, you know, you should tell me what the fuck is going on with you lately?
Clearly, there’s a lot going on with me. A whole bunch of shit, in fact, but getting any sort of feedback or advice from these fuckers is like going to a psychic when you’re in debt in hopes they’ll give you the winning lottery numbers.
Me: I’m peachy keen, baby.
Henry: Fucking fantastic. Then you can come have a few drinks with us at Allure.
I flip back over to my Midnight chat and look for a sign that Mystery Woman has any intention of showing up.
The chatbox is filled with all of our prior conversations—that I’ve read and reread a hundred times this evening—and the last notification inside of it showcases ThunderStruck has reentered the chat.
Anxiety gnaws at my chest, and I war with myself over whether I should even keep engaging with whoever is the real face behind ElizaBeth. Even thinking about the username sends me into a tizzy now. Like, has it been that painfully obvious the whole time? ElizaBETH. BETHany. I can only imagine how tickled she would be with herself if it was true.
Fuck.
A text notification pops up on the screen yet again, and I switch back over to Henry’s badgering.
Henry: Hello? Is this thing on? Get your old ass off your couch and come to Allure.
When I don’t respond, a few more messages from my group of buddies populate on the screen.
Mav: Remember Alyssa? The chick in the red dress? She’s here, and she’s asking for you.
Henry: Let’s be real…she was asking for me first, but I gallantly deferred her attention to you.
Me: Let’s actually be real…I’ve never needed you to defer attention to me.
Ronnie: Fucking sizxzle and burnnn. SHeeet that’s a dig, henro
Clearly, Ronnie’s more than a few drinks deep. But that’s Ronnie. The guy has two speeds—sleeping or full throttle. There’s never any in-between.
Me: Have a few more drinks for me, Ron. I’m gonna skip this one.
Mav: Hate to miss ya, but…more pussy for me!
I don’t bother with a response, knowing full well it’ll just be more of the same. Explaining anything about what I’m doing tonight to the three drunk amigos would make me even stupider than I already am.
And fuck me, I am stupid.
Back to the Midnight app, I type out a message, my whole body tensed over the niggling notion that Bethany Williams could be fucking with me all over again. I swear I’ll lose my mind.
Still, coming out with guns blazing isn’t going to get me any real answers, so I’ve got to play it cool.
ElizaBeth isn’t in the chat yet, but I fire off a message anyway. Maybe when she gets the notification that I sent it, it’ll force her to join.
ThunderStruck: I have a question for you. But I want a real answer this time.
I wait and wait and wait. My skin crawls with anticipation, so much so, I start to feel like I need another shower. I’m about ten seconds away from giving up entirely when ElizaBeth has reentered the chat appears below my message.
ElizaBeth: A real answer, huh? That sounds dangerously vulnerable, tbh, but I’ll give it my best shot.
ThunderStruck: I’m serious. I get being vague, but at some point, it goes too far. I want a direct answer to this one question, and I want your promise that it’ll be truthful.
ElizaBeth: DANG. Okay. We mean business. I get it. I promise a truthful, concise answer to this one question (as long as it’s not “What’s your name?” because that’d be very cheat-ish to the whole anonymous thing).
Clearly, I want to know her fucking name. But baby steps.
ThunderStruck: I don’t need your name. Not yet. For now, all I need to know is if I’ve dated you before.
I don’t like how long it takes to get a response, but eventually, I do.