“You should respond,” Nicole says.
I laugh so hard I snort. “I don’t Twitter, Nicole.”
“The verb is tweet,” she says.
“Whatever.”
“Create an account,” she says. “Can you imagine how funny that would be? He’d never expect you to reply. Oh my god, make your user name sassy girl!”
“Seriously?” I say. Although it does sound kind of fun. If he even notices my comment. There are so many people commenting on his tweets, mine will probably get lost in the shuffle. Still, there’s no harm done if he never sees it. And if he does….
“Okay, fuck it, I’m doing it,” I say.
Nicole laughs again. “This is so great.”
I fill out the information to create a profile. User name, @sassygirl555. “Do I have to have a profile picture?”
“Yeah, are you on your laptop?”
“Yes.”
“Just find a picture you already have,” Nicole says. “You can crop it or whatever.”
“Ugh. Fine.”
I don’t want to put too much effort into this little stunt, so I find a picture that includes me, and crop it to my head and shoulders. Okay, so I do make sure it’s a cute picture. But I don’t scroll through my files looking for one that makes me look particularly sassy. Nope, not at all.
“Okay, apparently I am now on Twitter,” I say.
“Stop the world, I need to get off,” Nicole says. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Clever,” I say. “Okay, now what do I do?”
“Just click the little button that lets you reply to his tweet,” she says.
“But what should I say?”
“Obviously something sassy,” Nicole says.
“Oh, obviously,” I say. “But I’m not using a stupid hashtag.”
I stare at the screen for a second, then type in a reply and hit enter. Hey, what’s a sassy girl to do? You needed some schooling, captain.
“Captain?” Nicole asks.
“Yeah, I don’t know,” I say. “That’s what I called him last night.”
“So flirty,” she says.
“Now what?”
“Now we wait to see if he replies,” Nicole says.
A man’s voice says something in the background and Nicole answers. It sounds like she’s holding the phone away from her. She giggles and goes silent.
“Gross, Nicole,” I say, raising my voice. “Stop making out while you’re talking to me.”
I am happy for her, but those two. They can’t keep their hands off each other and don’t seem to care who’s around. Or on the phone.
I am definitely not jealous. Not at all.
“Sorry,” she says with a laugh. “Okay, I have to go. Stop it, Ryan. Mel, put the Twitter app on your phone so you don’t miss his tweets. Ryan, you’re so bad. I’m on the phone. Mel, text me when he replies.”
“Okay.” I try not to sound too enthusiastic, but a thrill runs through me, imagining the look on Jackson’s face when he sees I tweeted back at him. Will it make him smile that crazy hot smirk?
It’s silly, and I know it. Jackson Bennett lives in a world I’m not sure is real. Whatever happened last night, and any subsequent tweeting that occurs, will be nothing more than a funny story in a day or so.
4
Jackson
I’m up early. Last night’s lack of activity had me in bed at an absurd hour, especially for a Friday night. The upside is, I check out of the hotel and get on the road before nine. And the lack of hangover is refreshing. I figure I’ll be home by noon, with plenty of time to go over some paperwork my assistant left on my desk. And I need something to do tonight. Fuck if I’m going to sit around by myself two nights in a row.
Last night was such a disappointment that I didn’t even check Twitter. I have a shit-ton of followers and I tweet constantly. My brother sends me angry emails, ranting at me about my ‘antics.’ He says I’m sullying the family name. I don’t bother telling him that’s half the fun of it.
The whole Twitter thing is nothing—it’s just a diversion to amuse myself. Okay, so I do like the attention. Wherever I go, I have women throwing themselves at me to make it into my Twitter feed. There isn’t anything wrong with that. I live an amazing life and I have nothing to hide. Why not have some fun with it and bring people along for the ride? Of course, I only tweet the good stuff. People don’t care about the board meetings and negotiations, the contracts and late nights in the office. They like to see the parties, the women, the hot cars, the exotic destinations. And, to be fair, those are the fun parts of my life.
I pick up my phone and scroll through my feed with my thumb, keeping one eye on the road. I tweeted about Melissa before I left the bar last night. I hedged the truth—I’m not going to admit publicly to being turned down. I wish I took a picture of her. As soon as she left the bar, I searched for her online. Nothing. She isn’t on social media, and if she is, she has her shit so locked down the fucking NSA won’t be able to find her. I Googled her name and found a mention of her in a local newspaper article—something about raising money for school supplies—but that’s all.
I still can’t believe she walked away from me last night. When was the last time I struck out with a woman? Sure, I get turned down sometimes. That’s the risk you take for boldness. But the number one reason—no, the only reason—I ever get a “no” is that the woman is already in a relationship. Melissa told me she doesn’t have a husband or a boyfriend, so that isn’t the problem. She simply said no.
It pisses me off, but it makes her all the more intriguing.
I scroll through the comments on last night’s tweets and almost drive off the road.
Hey, what’s a sassy girl to do? You needed some schooling, captain.
Son of a bitch. It’s definitely Melissa. I recognize that irresistible mouth, those smoldering dark eyes, that saucy smile. And she called me captain again. She must have looked me up and found my Twitter feed.
I race up the freeway, a plan already coming together in my mind. I don’t have her address, but how hard can that be to find? I call Tammi and give her Melissa’s name, with instructions to find a mailing address for her. Tammi’s amazing at that sort of thing. By the time I get home to my condo, I’ll have an email with Melissa’s whole life laid out in front of me.
Oh, Melissa. The things I am going to do to you.
5
Melissa
I know I’m in trouble when the twenty-one-year-old bottle of Glenlivet shows up at my house. No note, no return address, no indication as to where it came from. Just a bottle of Scotch.
The Scotch I told Jackson to order at Danny’s.
I pull it out of the box and set it on my counter, staring at it as if it might suddenly morph into something else—like a six-pack of Corona—and I can convince myself I imagined the Glenlivet. But it doesn’t change. It just sits there, staring at me, mocking me with its mystery.
How did he find out where I live? I told him my name, and he can find me on Twitter. But other than the hastily made Twitter account, I have no online presence. I probably should be creeped out, but I can’t stop smiling. It’s so … him. I don’t even know him, but from our brief interaction, I know this is so Jackson. If he wanted to catch me off guard, he certainly succeeded. What does he expect me to do next?
What won’t he expect?
An idea pops into my head. I’m probably going to regret it later, but I can’t help myself. I open the bottle and pour myself a glass, adding a splash of mineral water. It is such a nice Scotch. I grab my phone, hold up the drink, and take a selfie.
I definitely do not take seventeen, trying to get the best angle.
Hoping I don’t mess something up, I add the picture to Twitter and compose a tweet.
Straight up with a splash of mineral water—the real way to drink Scotch. Too bad I’m drinking alone.
I add his user name with that little @ symbol. I hope that’s right. Then I click Tweet.
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br /> I put my phone down, already regretting the tweet. How many people are going to see it? This is so weird. Jackson never replied to my earlier message, and until the Scotch showed up, I assumed that whatever passed between us—if it was anything at all—was long over. But then he went to the trouble to send me the Scotch. As much as I want to be a little bit hipster in my attitude toward social media, this is starting to get fun.
I check my phone a few times to see if he replied, but there isn’t anything from him. Someone retweeted my tweet—why the fuck did they do that?—and a few others seemed to have “liked” it. Although I guess that’s a good thing in Twitter-land, it reminds me that this stupid little flirtation is enormously public. Not like I give a shit what these weirdos think. I’m only messing with him, anyway.
I refresh the app one more time and a little spike of nerves runs through my tummy. He replied.
Gorgeous. And the Scotch looks good too.
Really? That’s the best he can do?
Wait, what does that mean? I thought he’d acknowledge sending it, say “You’re welcome,” somehow. Was it him?
He must have sent it. I don’t know anyone else who would anonymously ship me good Scotch.
The little envelope icon lights up with a “1”. What is this? I tap it and a new window opens. It’s a private message.
Don’t drink the whole bottle, sassy girl. I expect you to share.
I grin. Oh you do, do you? That’s a tall order, captain. It’s a good Scotch.
A new message. I guess I better come soon.
My heart beats faster at the thought of seeing him again. He isn’t serious. Is he? He isn’t going to come down here to see me. Do I want him to? I guess you better.
Oh shit, what did I just do? That’s a pretty fucking obvious invitation. A little back and forth online is one thing. But what if I see him again and can’t maintain control? What if I melt into a big puddle of stupid in the presence of that delicious body?
I try to tell myself I’m tougher than that, but I’m honestly not sure.
Three days later, I haven’t received any messages, and no more mysterious packages turned up on my porch. I’m annoyed with myself for spending so much time checking Twitter. Not only do I look to see if he messages me again, I watch for his tweets. There isn’t much. No parties, no groups of beautiful women. Since he sent me the Scotch, he mostly tweets about food. I have to admit to an odd fascination with his food porn. Are those really pictures of what he’s eating, or is he taking them from food magazines? More than anything else, it makes me hungry. This guy eats like a fucking king.
I sit on my couch with a big mug of chamomile tea, half watching a movie and half flipping through the pages of a magazine. I just had lunch with Nicole, which should have been a nice diversion. Instead, we obsessed over Jackson the entire time. She saw my tweet with the glass of Scotch—because of course she did—and wanted to know what else is happening. I think she was disappointed to hear we only messaged back and forth a couple of times and I haven’t heard from him since.
I try to convince her I’m not disappointed, but I know she isn’t buying it. Neither am I.
There’s a knock at my door and my stomach does a somersault. I’m not expecting anyone. My dad is in town, but he never stops by unannounced. And I just saw Nicole.
I answer the door to find a large unmarked box and a Fed Ex guy jogging back to his truck. The box is pretty heavy, but I manage to get it inside. There isn’t anything on the outside other than my name and address. No indication what it is or where it came from.
Okay, here goes. I grab a pair of scissors and cut through the thick tape. Inside, I find reams of white paper, a huge case of number two pencils, a big package of washable markers, a case of crayons, and a shit-ton of Elmer’s glue.
My heart sinks right into my stomach. It’s just a school supply donation. They come in every so often, usually when a local business needs a last-minute tax deduction. Although they’re typically sent to the school, not to my house.
I dig through the box, looking for a note or a letter, anything to tell me who sent it. At the bottom, I find a folded piece of paper. It’s a printed-out newspaper article from about a year ago. Our local paper did a feature on the school district’s budget issues. They interviewed me, and I gave them a few quotes about how teachers use their own money to make sure their classrooms have adequate supplies all year. At the top is a photo of me with a few of my students, holding up some of the donated school supplies we received.
No fucking way.
Is this from Jackson? It can’t be. I did tell him I’m a teacher, and anyone could Google my name and find that article. Would he have done this?
I think about tweeting another picture, but what if he didn’t send the package? It seems next to impossible that it was him, and I’ll feel pretty stupid when he tweets back with a big “WTF is that?”
I put the stuff back in the box and grab my phone, wondering if I should ask him. There’s a little notification on the Twitter icon, so I check, expecting to see another pointless retweet of my Scotch picture.
It’s a message from Jackson.
What do you think? Did you open it? Did I choose the right stuff? I don’t really know anything about kids.
I stare at my phone, my mouth wide open. There is no way Jackson Bennett, billionaire playboy, sent me a box of fucking school supplies.
It seems insane that he messaged me so soon after it was delivered. How did you know I got it?
I set up surveillance on your house.
What? I run to the window and look out, fully expecting to see a utility van or some shit parked outside. But the street is empty.
I check my messages again. I got a delivery notification from Fed Ex.
Leaning my head back, I put a hand on my forehead. I am such a dork. Surveillance. I’m not going to admit he fooled me with that one.
I send him another message. This is actually pretty amazing. Did you really send all of it?
I’m glad you like it. You haven’t given me much to work with.
What is that supposed to mean?
It feels like ages before he replies. There are only four things I know about you. You like good Scotch. You teach 5th grade. Your daddy is a fisherman. And I can’t stop thinking about you.
My chest tightens and I cover my mouth. He cannot be serious. Are you fucking with me?
I was wrong. Five things. You have a mouth like a sailor. Less than a second later, another message. I won’t fuck with you. I might do other things, but fuck *with* you isn’t one of them.
I sink down on the couch, bewildered. My heart races, and I’m all hot between the legs. School supplies. This man managed to make school supplies the sexiest fucking thing in the universe.
Now I know I want to see him. I need to see him. I need to reach out and touch him to make sure he’s real. Because at this point, it all feels like a crazy dream.
6
Melissa
Jackson and I talk back and forth for days. At first it’s all Twitter. He mentions me in some of his tweets, usually when they’re pictures of his drinks.
A glass of Scotch—without ice. What do you think, @sassygirl555? Could the Longmorn top the Glenlivet 21?
A frosty mug of beer, sitting on an outdoor table. Some nights are beer nights. I think @sassygirl555 would agree.
A thin slice of the most decadent-looking chocolate torte I’ve ever seen. Dessert for one. @sassygirl555
That last one makes my breath catch. Am I reading too much into it, or does it mean he wishes he was having that dessert with me?
He sends me a lot of private messages, too, until he declares his Twitter app “annoying” and asks for my number so he can text me. I balk for a moment at giving it to him, then roll my eyes at myself. He figured out where I live. Why should I worry about whether he has my phone number?
We text each other every day. He asks about my day or what I’m doing. Sometimes he texts about work
—complaining about idiots he has to deal with, or saying he had a meeting that went well. He asks random questions, like whether I like chocolate (yes), or sushi (no), or am a vegetarian (hell, no). Our brief conversations usually go from small talk to playful banter. He teases me about living in the sticks. I hit back with quips about him being a suit. We talk about movies and music. I find myself looking forward to those little moments, the short messages shining at me from my phone screen. One morning I panic, realizing I forgot to charge my phone overnight and the battery is dead. I’m as excited as a fucking kid at Christmas when I manage to get the phone to turn on again and find he texted me twice.
The following Thursday—thirteen days after I met Jackson at Danny’s, and no I’m not counting—I wake up to my phone dinging with a text. I smile before I even look. Of course it’s him.
Got up for an early meeting that took five minutes. Assholes.
I laugh. That’s shitty. You should charge them more money somehow.
Good plan. I think I will.
God, why do his texts make me feel all tingly? He’s telling me about a meeting, for fucks sake. That shouldn’t turn me on. Well, now you’re up and you can tweet pictures of your decadent breakfast.
I’d rather be doing something else.
I lay back against my pillow. I want to see where this goes. Tell me.
Do you really want to know?
Yes. Tell me.
There’s a pause before his next message. If I had my way, I’d start at your toes. I’d inch my way up your body with my lips. My tongue. My teeth. Do you want to hear more?
Fuck yes, I want to hear more.
I’d get to your thighs and I’d gently push open your legs. I’d use my tongue—I’m very good with my tongue. I wouldn’t stop until you screamed my name.
One Crazy Week Page 3
