“Are you telling me no?”
“Not exactly, but I am suspicious.”
We have a stare down, both of us watching the other without saying a word for long, drawn out moments.
“I spoke with Flynn.”
“Of course you did,” I mutter. Just like there’s no privacy around here; there are also no damn secrets.
“He said you’re in need of woman help.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, because I’ll never ask him what I should’ve done to at least secure a date before walking away from Whitney this morning. I know it was a missed opportunity, but I’ll never confess my lack of skill out loud.
“I figured I could give you a few pointers.”
“Shouldn’t Brooks be the one offering assistance?”
Brooks can charm the cotton panties off of a nun, but honestly, Ignacio isn’t very far behind him in skill.
“He’s busy. He’s on the schedule to help tomorrow.”
“There’s a fucking schedule?”
“We’re only here to help.”
“So there aren’t any side bets going?”
At least he looks a little sheepish for being called out.
“What’s the over under?”
“Finn, Gaige, and Jude think the first time you go out with your girl, you’ll fall on your face.”
“I can’t help it I’m a little clumsy,” I seethe. Why do they think I’m so good with computers? Do they honestly think people wake up one day and decide to be a nerd? I tried sports when I was younger, but apparently that shit requires coordination. I missed every aspect of that. I don’t open my mouth to tell him I haven’t tripped over my own feet in days. It doesn’t seem very relevant.
“And?” I ask instead.
“Brooks, Quinten, and me think you have the potential to take it all the way.” He smiles like I should give him credit for having faith in me.
“What about Deacon?”
“He’s not involved. He’s got his own lady troubles.”
“And how exactly is going to lunch going to help me with her?”
“You mean sex toy girl?”
“Her name is Whitney.”
“Lunch will be a practice in flirting and using your charm.”
“And there’s no possible way this will go bad,” I grumble, but finally agree to his help.
I’ll take any tips and tricks I can to make sure I end up with this girl.
Chapter 8
Whitney
“I’m just saying it’s possible.”
“But still very improbable,” I repeat.
“You’re so pessimistic,” Sarah says with a sigh.
“But you love me anyway,” I remind her.
“Of course I do, but could you at least consider that the guy on the elevator and the guy you’re falling for online could be the same person?”
“No,” I deadpan.
I won’t even let my mind go there. The guy in the elevator was so freaking hot, like model hot. The unintentional five-o’clock shadow on his jaw, those bright blue eyes, hell, even his messy sandy-blond hair made him attractive. My luck isn’t that good.
“He lives in St. Louis,” Sarah reminds me.
“Over three hundred thousand people live in St. Louis.”
“He has a bird.”
“Lots of people have birds. They aren’t exactly a rare animal.”
“What about his voice? The guy on the elevator talked, right? Was it the same voice infiltrating your wet dreams at night?”
“Why do I bother telling you anything? And it wasn’t a wet dream.”
“Damp, moist, whatever.”
“Hork, you nasty bitch.” I make a gagging noise for emphasis.
We both laugh. Her louder than me.
“The voice?” she prompts when I get distracted by the work I have going on my screen.
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Really?” She squeals like she’s just won a car on The Price is Right.
“The guy on the elevator had a lovely voice,” I confess, but truthfully when I replay that interaction, all I can hear is the hilarious bird saying crude things to me. “Wasp has a lovely voice.”
“You guys haven’t gotten around to telling each other your real names? You suck at online dating.”
“I’m not online dating. We met playing a game. Everyone uses handles. Using your real name is dangerous, especially around groups of people with nothing but time and top-notch computer skills.”
“You’re the best hacker ever. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not a hacker and I’m not even close to the best.”
I don’t mention that Wasp’s systems are locked down tighter than an all-girls’ school after lights out.
“Digital data researcher, sorry.”
“That’s not right,” I mutter, my fingers punching in a code to bypass another site’s firewall.
“Everything about this is right! I’ve seen what you can do. Hit that man’s backdoor and do a little snooping.”
I smile at her words because they do have a disgusting sexual innuendo to them and because my maturity often leans more toward pubescent boy than grown woman.
“I’m not going to invade his privacy.”
“Why? If he’s as interested in you as you claim, he’s probably already been through your backdoor.”
I chuckle. “Please stop saying backdoor.”
“Still,” she argues.
“There’s no way for him to get through my firewalls. Plus, I’d know it if he did. They’re impenetrable.”
“Nothing is impenetrable,” she disagrees.
I mean, unless he’s the real W45PN357, he wouldn’t have a chance, and I don’t imagine the real hacker would spend his time playing games online—not with pandemics, pizzagate, Benghazi, and a million other things going on that he’d probably feel obligated to research.
“You already know my opinion.” She sighs. “I don’t know why you don’t just agree to go out with him.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be murdered?”
She scoffs. “Does he seem like a murderer?”
“Ted Bundy was very charming.”
If she were in front of me, she’d be rolling her eyes. I don’t doubt she’s already doing it all the way from California right now.
“Go during the daytime, in public. Tell a local friend where you’re going. Hell, have them follow you to make sure you’re safe. He asked to meet for coffee, not at some sleezy hotel off the highway with a no vacancy sign.”
There is so much to unpack from her statement. I won’t admit that I don’t have local friends because saying it would make me feel even more like a loser.
“Why does your mind always go to sleezy hotels?” I ask after realizing she’s made the reference more than half a dozen
