Just My Type

by Tara Sivec

  OMG, no one hurt me at a gym.

  Unless you count every single, solitary time I have ever stepped foot in a gym in my entire life, then yes. Yes I have been hurt. Have you seen people’s exercise faces? It’s not pretty. No one is pretty at a gym, and yet, someone always wants to chitchat or flirt when you can’t breathe, you’re sweating like a pig, and you’re now questioning why you sped the treadmill up just because the woman running next to you made it look so easy, and if you so much as blink, you’re going to become one of those gifs of a woman face-planting on the treadmill and flying off the end of it. Maybe the woman crying while she’s speed walking doesn’t want to go for coffee. Maybe you should just leave her alone to sweat and cry in peace, because she’s been through some shit, man, and she doesn’t have time for you to flex your chest muscles all up-and-down so they look like creepy, muscly, man boobs jiggling, because you think it’s going to turn her on. And don’t even get me started on the people fake working out, who just go there in a full face of makeup to take Instagram pictures, hogging a treadmill for fifteen minutes while they get the perfect over-the-head angle of themselves not fucking working out. And it wasn’t a Zumba class—it was Jazzercise, and that bitch had it coming, being so happy that early on a Saturday morning. I like your confidence when you said you pictured a woman at that Zumba class and you’re absolutely certain you aren’t talking to a dude right now. Don’t worry; I’m attaching a photo of myself so you can sleep easier at night.

  I’m judging you for your spray tan. But it’s your lucky day! Tell him what he’s won, Bob. Since you did it for family, and I would also turn myself orange for my loved ones, this will go on my list Reasons Why He’s Probably Not a Serial Killer. Things are really looking up for you, Baker.

  My most interesting transcription job? I’d have to say it was one I did a few months ago. It was a recording of an employee review. It started off like your typical employee review, going over the last quarter’s stats, if she was happy in her current role, etc., etc. The whole review lasted about fifteen minutes. And then, I would assume they forgot the review was being recorded. But there was a lot of noise initially. Maybe they smacked around for the Off button and assumed they hit their target. Which they didn’t. And everything was recorded, and then sent to me to transcribe.

  Anyway, let’s just say that employee should probably get a promotion to CEO. She was very enthusiastic. Probably not about her job. More than likely about the banging she received on the desk. It was super fun to transcribe every “Oh my God, Yes!”, and one head-scratching “That’s not where it goes!” Always listen to your voice recordings before sending them anywhere, kids.

  Ember “Don’t You Dare Fucking Google Me” Hastings

  CHAPTER 6

  BAKER

  Great Ass

  To: Ember Hastings

  From: baker83@gmail.com

  Subject: Re: Shit Mouth Transcription

  I never said I was sending you a picture of myself. I said I was sending you a picture of my current view. Which would be of my grandmother, on visiting day at the state penitentiary. Nana Grand Funk. She’s doing time. Hard time. She ain’t got time for your bullshit. She’s seen some things. That cane is actually a shank she whittled out of a toothbrush. Her needlepoint says Fuck these bitches and hos.

  I’d tell you that you suck at boosting someone’s spirits, but you told me I had, and I quote, “A deep, raspy, manly voice.” So, you basically think I’m hot. Which means you have a thing for guys you still possibly believe are in prison. Or on steroids. You have a steroid prison kink. My, my, how the tables have turned.

  I don’t think they have, because I have not admitted to any of my kinks (Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes absolutely DO belong in the bedroom. Don’t @ me), I’ve just always wanted to say that. I’m going to be of no use to you when you find out I don’t have any prison tats, and my thighs aren’t the size of a tractor tire. I mean, I do have fairly impressive guns. Not tree trunk guns, but I could definitely open up that troublesome jar of pickles for you without any effort.

  Speaking of serial killers, I think we should meet

  “Who’s Ember Hastings, and why do you want to meet her?”

  My body jolts in the office chair, and I quickly slam my laptop closed. Spinning the chair to the right, I lean back into it, cross my arms in front of me, and glare at my sister.

  “Also, why did you have a picture of Wilford Brimley up on your screen? Were you jerking off to the oatmeal guy?”

  Annoying older sister aside, I can’t stop the little chuckle that comes out of my mouth when I think about the picture Ember sent of “herself.” Blake reaches her hand out toward my laptop, and I quickly drop the smile and smack her hand away.

  “How much did you read?”

  “Somewhere around the time you said you don’t wear tank tops to show off your guns,” Blake says, looking pointedly at my bare arms with a smirk. “Liar.”

  “This is an Under Armour compression tank with breathable fabric,” I argue. “I just got done with a new client assessment workout. I didn’t wear it to show anything off.”

  “So, is this Ember person what made you smile just now, or were you really dreaming of lying on a white sandy beach with Wilford in a bikini?” Blake asks, leaning her hip against the edge of my desk, crossing her arms over her chest, and mirroring my pose.

  “Don’t make a big thing out of it,” I mutter with a roll of my eyes.

  She’s going to make a big thing out of it.

  “I’m sorry, but my brother didn’t look like a completely miserable sack of shit for a few seconds there, for the first time in months, and I’d just like to pinpoint what did the trick so we can repeat it. Unless it’s Wilford porn. I don’t know if I can get on board with that.”

  Fucking hell…

  I know my sister means well. I know I’ve been a huge pain in the ass the last few months. And I have been a miserable sack of shit and annoyed with everything and everyone. Until midnight on a Saturday two weeks ago, when I was mistakenly sent a transcription file, and I laughed out loud all by myself here in the office at the gym. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d genuinely laughed at something without forcing it lately. I smiled the whole way through typing up that first reply to Ember, and I haven’t stopped smiling and laughing through each and every email exchange we’ve made so far. I feel a stab of guilt that I never mentioned this to Blake. We’ve always told each other everything. Always.

  Older than me by exactly twelve months, Blake and I were inseparable from the moment I was born. We had the same friends, we loved and played the same sports, we kicked each other’s asses, and we always had each other’s backs. We were a united team against a set of parents who wanted each of us to be something we weren’t.

  I should have told her about Ember. I just wasn’t ready to share the one thing that made me forget about my problems yet. It was nice having something all to myself. Especially before this stupid article eventually comes out and I lose any privacy I have.

  I also wasn’t quite sure I was ready to tell my sister everything, and have her tell me what a goddamn creeper I am.

  Jesus Christ, I am such a fucking creeper.

  “So, you know that stupid magazine spread Uncle Butch set up? The human interest piece or whatever that will tug at America’s heartstrings or some shit, and bring in more donor money?”

  Blake nods, pulling herself up onto my desk. She makes a swirling motion with her hand, indicating I should speed it up, since she knows what magazine article I’m talking about. I’ve done nothing but bitch about it for the last few months, ever since Uncle Butch called and told me he’d give me the start-up money I needed to expand, but only if I did this article to bring in more donors. This article is the reason I’ve been such a miserable prick lately. I’m stalling like a fucking pussy, because I don’t want my sister to make fun of me.

  Jesus Christ.

  “Well, the magazine sent over someone to
interview me, and the interviews are being recorded so they can be transcribed,” I explain, bringing her up to speed while she pulls her cell phone out of her back pocket and starts tapping at it. “Once the interview is finished, I’ll send all the transcriptions back to the magazine so they can write it up. They sent some dimwit to interview me who just wants me to look at her tits the entire time she’s talking, and will probably make me look like a brainless, bench-pressing meathead.”

  Considering that’s exactly how Ember sees me after listening to those transcriptions, this is already a foregone conclusion. I’m fucked if I don’t figure out a solution.

  “As much as I don’t want to do this thing, I don’t want to come across as an idiot. Also, there was some weird glitch with the transcription company, which led me to start communicating with Ember, the transcriber, and she makes me laugh, so don’t make a big thing about it.”

  She’s going to make a fucking big thing about it.

  I wait a few beats for her to say something, but she’s still staring down at her phone.

  “Did you even hear what I said?”

  “Oh, I heard you.” She nods, still scrolling through something on her phone. “I’m just googling Ember Hastings to make sure she isn’t a creepy cat lady who’ll take your kidney and leave you in a bathtub full of ice. Ooooh, she’s got a great Facebook profile picture.”

  “That’s a major invasion of privacy, Blake.”

  Said the creepy guy who has that great Facebook profile picture saved on his phone.

  A woman with wavy, blonde hair down past her shoulder blades is facing away from the camera, looking out toward the sun rising in the distance. She’s standing in a field surrounded by wheat and pumpkins, wearing a black tank top, a pair of jeans, and scuffed, brown cowboy boots. One of her hands is up resting behind her head, and her other arm is down at her side, clutching the brim of a cowboy hat. It’s a fucking beautiful shot. And her ass is hot as hell in those jeans. It doesn’t even matter that I can’t see her face. Every time I get an email from Ember, I picture that woman standing in a field of pumpkins, with the sexy-as-fuck body, and all that blonde hair.

  “Holy shit, Baker, she lives in Chicago!” Blake shouts excitedly, turning her phone around so I can see the Whitepages listing she found.

  You know, the Whitepages listing I already found by googling Hastings Pumpkin Farm—the only information that wasn’t private on Ember’s Facebook page—which told me the farm was in Montana. It then helped me narrow down the Ember Hastings on my Whitepages search to the only one connected to Montana, which shows she moved from Montana to Chicago a year and a half ago.

  Just because I’m a guy, doesn’t mean I can’t be freaked the fuck out about talking to someone on the internet who may or may not be a female serial killer. I’m allowed to fear for my life and conduct my due diligence, goddammit.

  “Wow, Chicago, huh? What are the odds?” I shrug, feigning nonchalance. As I glance out the office window of the gym, and my perfect view of Chicago’s Navy Pier and Lake Michigan.

  It’s the reason I wanted the gym in this location. To give the people who come here something beautiful and endless and hopeful to look at while I try to help them get back their humanity. It’s also now the reason I get an even bigger smile on my fucking face whenever I get an email from Ember. Ever since I went down the rabbit hole of Google and found out she lives in Chicago, I’ve realized there’s a distinct possibility I might get to meet the woman who put a smile on my face for the first time in months. Which was why I was in the middle of asking Ember if we could meet, when Blake interrupted me.

  “You can’t mention serial killers in the same sentence you ask this woman to meet you in person,” Blake informs me, annoying me all over again when she mentions the email she read over my shoulder.

  “Wasn’t your first conversation with Rachel about the Zodiac Killer’s crime scene photos?” I question with a smirk.

  “My wife and I share a mutual obsession with crime scene photos; that’s why we’re soul mates, thank you very much. And it was the Black Dahlia’s crime scene photos, and it was our second conversation on the dating app, dipshit,” Blake says with a huff.

  Spinning my chair away from her so I’m facing my desk again, I reopen my laptop and erase the last line of the email I was drafting to Ember. Reaching my hand under the desk, I rub my sore knee distractedly while I try to come up with something better than, I know you said I shouldn’t google you, but I did. You have a great ass. As long as that’s you in your Facebook profile photo. Oh, God, I hope it’s not your mom or something. My deepest apologies if it is. I’m certain it’s not your mom, though. You’re thirty-two. And that is definitely not a fifty-plus-year-old ass in that photo. Don’t worry, I found your age elsewhere. Your Facebook page is still private and gives nothing away. Very safe of you. Good job. There are a lot of creepers out there. Anyway, doesn’t meeting me in person sound like a great idea?

  “Is your knee okay?” Blake asks softly from behind me, when I didn’t even realize she’d gotten down off the desk.

  “It’s fine,” I bite back, wincing at the harshness of my words as I yank my hand away from my knee and poise my fingers over the keyboard.

  That’s another reason I need to meet the woman behind the emails. The one who makes me laugh and forget about my goddamn knee. She doesn’t pity me. She doesn’t worry about me. She doesn’t put me up on a fucking pedestal I don’t deserve, just because I’m doing something that should be done.

  She makes fun of me. She calls me on my shit. She treats me like a normal human being. Something she might not do if she googled me. Which is why I haven’t told her my last name. The first hit when you google Baker Matthews? Chicago Wounded Army Vet, Local Hero.

  I’m not a hero. I’m just a normal guy. Who wants a woman to call him on his shit and not get all flustered or respectful or over-the-top flirtatious when she finds out who he is and what he does for a living. I want her to still call someone Skanky Giggler in front of me, and joke that I’m nothing special. Not fall all over me, thanking me for just being a decent human being.

  “Just help me out with this, will you?” I ask Blake, hoping that by requesting her help, she’ll forget I acted like a little bitch when she asked me about my knee.

  “Nana Grand Funk? Seriously?” Blake asks with a snort, leaning over my shoulder to read more of the email I’d started to Ember.

  “That’s not helping. And it was funny, shut up,” I mutter.

  “You’re really going to need to butter her up to soften the blow that you’re a stalker who knows everything about her,” Blake informs me.

  “I don’t know everything about her. Just a few minor details to prove she isn’t a psycho.”

  “So, her name, her age, where she lives, and a picture of a woman with a hot-as-hell ass proves to you she isn’t a psycho killer?” Blake questions with humor in her voice.

  “Name me one famous female killer with a great ass.”

  “Darlene Gentry, Jodi Arias, Amber Hilberling—”

  I interrupt her with a sigh. “Seriously, the amount of knowledge you have of gruesome things is astonishing. You know what? I’ll just blame you.”

  I start tapping my fingers against the keyboard, my smile growing with each word I type.

  “Older sisters are so fucking annoying. I’m sure she’ll buy it.”

  That earns me a smack on the back of the head, but hopefully it will be worth it when Ember agrees to meet me.

  Skanky Giggler, you might just come in handy after all.

  CHAPTER 7

  Ember

  Shut Your Whore Mouth

  “Read that last part again,” Brooklyn orders.

  Propping my phone against an unlit jar candle in the middle of my coffee table so Brooklyn can still see me over the FaceTime call, I go back to my laptop. Scrolling up through the recent email Baker sent, I reread the last part.

  “My sister googled you. I’m sorry. I called CPS
and told them to take her away, but they don’t want a thirty-six-year-old, mouthy little shit with no personal boundaries. This is where I tell you not to freak out that I also live in Chicago.”

  My voice gets a little higher pitched and frantic when I get to that last part.

  “Stop freaking out,” Brooklyn orders. “You’ve already read that part to me ten times, and each time, your voice sounds like it’s about to shatter a few windows when you say Chicago. We’ve already established that you live in the same city. We are moving on from freaking out about that. Read the part after that.”

  I can’t even be mad that she’s getting pissy with me. I don’t know if I’m freaking out because this is just some guy I met on the internet and it’s weird as hell that we just randomly happen to live in the same city, or if I’m freaking out because, after just a few email exchanges, he’s not just some guy I met on the internet. He makes me laugh. And he makes me not want to be such a worthless slug, sitting around on my couch on a Friday night like a miserable loser. And he wants to meet me.

  Clearing my throat, I read the rest of Baker’s email.

  “It brings me great sadness to have to tell you this, but Skanky Giggler is no longer interviewing me. I’ll give you a minute to compose yourself over the loss of such a stunning interviewer. The magazine requesting this interview read the first transcript and agreed it was complete shit. Don’t worry. I removed all of your jolly and helpful notes first. The magazine apologized and asked me what I wanted to do. I told them I might know someone locally with a take-charge attitude who could ask the hard-hitting questions. I’m in a real fucking bind here, Ember. I know you don’t really know me, and I know you definitely don’t trust me from any other stranger on the street, but I need help with this. It’s important. What do you say?”