by Laura Brown
Wrong Number
Laura Brown
Wrong Number
Copyright© 2021 Laura Brown
EPUB Edition
The Tule Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Second Publication by Tule Publishing 2021
Cover design by EM Graphics
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-953647-86-3
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Dedication
To Mike,
Your support for me knows no bounds and I couldn’t do this writing thing without you by my side. You show me every day what love is and help give me inspiration for my words.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Each story has its own unique journey from concept to publication, and this one has been one hell of a fun ride! From the start, Avery and Jake captured me, taking over the page. Around them my writing career shifted and changed, but I had this story to dive into and hold me up right.
To my agent, Lynnette Novak, I am so glad Avery and Jake allowed us to connect! Thank you for loving them like I have, for championing for them along with me. I wouldn’t be here without your support.
To Meghan Farrell and the entire Tule team, thank you for seeing the magic of Avery and Jake and giving them a loving home. Everyone has gotten them and helped them come even more alive, it has been such a treat to work with you all!
A writer would be nowhere without their communities, and I’m so fortunate that I have so many wonderful people to lean on from anything from plot help to general writerly inquiries. Heather DiAngelis, Karen Mahara, Rochelle Karina, Laura Heffernan, Emma Wicker, Jami Nord, you all have read various parts of this story, sometimes more than once, and helped me bring my words to the next level. You also hold my hand when I thrust it out for holding. I don’t know what I’d do without you, probably beat my head against a wall a lot more often.
To the writing community, including those I interact with in small and not so small groups: every single one of you is amazing. I love how we all support one another, how we cheer each other on, prop each other up, and lend help when needed. Writing might be solitary, but publishing is a team effort.
To Paula St Pierre, I wrote this during the pandemic and can hardly imagine that far off day where we met in a crowded coffee shop so you could tell me all about being a baker, and being a baker with hearing loss at that! Thank you for meeting with me and for sharing your expertise. I hope I have done your notes justice.
To my husband and kid, you put up with me on my computer for long hours, rummaging over plot changes, and pulling out my hair. Thank you for only interrupting me fifty percent of the time. Yes, I will still grumble, but I love you both very much.
CHAPTER ONE
Avery
It started with a dick pic. A cartoon GIF to be exact, which made things even more odd than if it had been real and walking around on its balls. As a general rule, obscene cartoons from random phone numbers weren’t the most welcome occurrence. And yet insomnia had me wide awake—and curious—because this unsolicited penis GIF made my sleepless night much more interesting.
I put down my phone and glanced around my sparse apartment living room, in need of a distraction. The beat-up wood floor had a polished shine to it, in contrast with the dirty and dinged boxes. They lined the far wall, balanced like the final Tetris round moments before the end. The opposite wall held the dismantled boxes, waiting for me to discover what, if any, recycling options this place had. But the thought of unpacking another one made me twitch. Insomnia would be so much better if it came with superhero cleaning skills. No, scratch that, superheroes made messes. Not once had I seen the Caped Crusaders replace broken glass and rebuild flattened skyscrapers.
I’d have to come up with another superpower to equate to my insomnia. A year of sleepless nights, and all I had to show for it were a few new recipes and a mourner’s heart.
I tapped my phone, my screen coming to life with the image of a fancy chocolate, caramel cupcake and the time: two a.m. I’d been at this for hours, anxiety having a few choice words about my move. I should be tired. I should tackle the next box. Or get my butt to bed.
My bottom lip found its way between my teeth, and it had nothing to do with the cupcake. It had to do with certain other things on my phone, inappropriate ones that looked a hell of a lot better than unpacking. You’re tired, whispered the angel on my shoulder. The most fun you’ve had in a year has been food related, screamed the devil.
Before the angel had a chance to protest, my thumbs had not only located the text but also started a response.
Me: Do you normally send dick GIFs to strangers?
Through my blinds, the streetlight created shadows on the neighboring building. No more trees and clear skies, not since I moved to Massachusetts from Upstate New York for a new job. The move was purely career-related, even if the last fun thing I’d done involved a Bar Mitzvah and a guy who was more of a dick than the anonymous texter. Career or not, perhaps a little fun would be a good thing. Only my phone stayed quiet. Damn, I scared him off. Wouldn’t be the first time.
The Tetris wall called my name. I could probably get the box closest to the window without causing a topple effect my downstairs neighbors would surely hate me for. As I set the phone on a box designated for the kitchen, it vibrated out of my hand, shifting on the cardboard, causing me to jump and clutch my racing heart.
I opened the text before I took my next breath.
Dick Guy: Holy shit! I’m so sorry. That was supposed to go to my buddy.
Me: Do you normally send dick GIFs to your friends?
Dick Guy: When they’re being dicks themselves? Yeah.
I laughed and shifted to the couch, snuggling into the corner to curl up with my phone and avoid the cookbooks stacked at the other end. Much better than unpacking.
Me: But only GIFs? Don’t guys always compare their manhood?
Dick Guy: Compare my manhood to a GIF?
Me: Well, I highly doubt your dick is going to get up and walk down the street.
Dick Guy: This has to be the strangest random conversation I’ve ever stumbled into, but my guy can hold his own.
Me: Oh really?
I bit my lip. I had no idea why I baited this stranger; blame the insomnia or the total lack of anything intriguing going on in my life. This conversation with a stranger was much better than having people constantly check on me, expecting me still to be dressed all in black.
Dick Guy: Are you asking for the real thing?
I squirmed into the couch, body waking up from a long-dormant slumber. This wasn’t me. I wasn’t this person. But this guy had no clue who or where I was, and I kinda liked that anonymous fun.
Me: Yes.
I had no clue who had taken over my texting thumbs, but she was a hell of a lot more bold than regular me.
Dick Guy: I’m not going to find this splattered all over the internet with comments about how the GIF was better?
Me: Is the GIF better?
Dick Guy: You tell me.
An image started to download on my phone, and I squealed and turned it over. Holy crap. He really sent it. I mean, it could have been another GIF, but even if it wasn’t, I asked for it. Not so unsolicited now.
My cheeks heated. It had been so long, since Erik passed away. Before, if I wanted to be honest, Erik wouldn’t have sent exposed private parts over the phone, ease of being hacked and all that. But Erik wasn’t here, not anymore. I was here. Alone.
I turned over my phone. Not a GIF. Not a bad-looking penis, either. Subdued, but I wondered what it would take to get it to a livelier state. Somehow, and I’d blame the late night in a heartbeat, it turned me on. I wanted to see him hard.
But I wasn’t about to let this sender know that.
Me: Are you looking for a rating? I can rate you, but I’m not so sure you’ll approve.
Dick Guy: I thought we were comparing it to the GIF?
Me: Less cartoony, so there’s a plus. But it’s not going to walk across the room, is it?
Dick Guy: You have me laughing at my own dick. Thanks.
Me: Then my job here is done. If it makes you feel any better, breasts can’t walk across the room either.
Dick Guy: You sure about that?
I laughed.
Me: I’d like to see you prove me wrong.
Dick Guy: Hang on.
My phone was silent, and I began to ponder how the hell I had ended up in this odd conversation, when it chimed again.
Dick Guy: Okay, no walking, just a lot of bouncing.
Me: They do bounce. That’s nature.
Dick Guy: Like this?
A GIF loaded, a cartoon character raising her shirt, bare breasts bouncing down, and my core clenched. It wasn’t goofy like that original GIF, and it made me want to be the one raising my shirt.
Me: Not quite like that.
Dick Guy: Oh really?
Dammit, he threw my words back at me. And they tempted. Something about the late night, the restlessness, the lack of easily meeting new people caused me to be bold. I raised my shirt and took a picture of one breast. The flash distorted the image, making it grainy and less real, which was the only reason I sent it.
And promptly had a mini panic attack. I sent a picture of my breast to an absolute stranger. This guy could work with my father for all I knew or be a teenager. Before the panic could explode in my veins, my phone chirped.
Dick Guy: Nice. Not bouncing and yet my night is now complete. This mistake might be the best one in my entire life.
Me: Because I sent you a pic of a breast?
Dick Guy: A beautiful, lickable breast.
I shuddered and pressed my thighs together, finding it nearly impossible that random texting guy managed to turn me on. I wondered if his dick was no longer limp and nearly asked for another view.
Me: Just think, I’ve got two of those.
Dick Guy: Believe me, I am.
Another shudder shocked through me, nerve endings sparking to life without a single touch. I missed this. This feeling, the excitement. This should have been creepy. Stalker going to break into the house creepy. But I felt the false sense of safety from interacting with a stranger. The thrill of it, and thrills had been seriously lacking in my life up until now. My focus for the last two years rarely strayed from my dreams—this move one giant leap closer. Though I couldn’t think of those plans, not now.
I wanted to know if he was hard.
Dick Guy: Thank you for turning my night around.
Me: Anytime.
Dick Guy: Careful, I might take you up on that.
I put my phone on my heart and breathed in deep. A silly smile had to be on my face, but no one would see it. No one I knew lived nearby. The sobering thought knocked the last energy from my system. I picked myself up and stepped over random boxes, making it to the bedroom. Somehow, I fell asleep, wondering what that lickable dick looked like at full mast.
*
Noise. Loud noise. Must stop noise. I pushed my head up from my pillow, my eyes crusty, hair plastered to my face, and felt around for my phone. My fingers connected with the cool metal and fumbled blindly until blessed silence enveloped me once again. I collapsed to my pillow, hugging it tight, the barest remnants of a dick-filled dream floating to mind.
My cheeks heated and I yanked the blanket over my head. Oh my. Hours before came back to me, and embarrassment dueled with a distinctive turned-on state.
State. The Move. Massachusetts.
The new job!
Shit!
I scrambled up, body tingling with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. I had no clue if it had to do with my dreams, but I needed all the fuel I could get. I seriously needed to thank Dick Guy.
Thanking him could be a lot of fun.
No. No thoughts of text messages or dicks, not when I needed to be on my best for my first day. I loved my job. Being a baker had always been how I envisioned my future, if only sleep hadn’t become an issue. Plus, I needed this fresh start, away from the near-suffocating memories that plagued me back home. Maybe I’d save that for an after-work reward.
Yeah, right. Outgoing and me didn’t exactly mix. Cautiously reserved was more my speed, a few hours ago a mere fluke. A fun fluke, but a fluke nonetheless.
Still, thanking him wasn’t a bad idea.
My bedroom and bathroom were set up, and I easily made my way through my morning routine as if I’d done it here a thousand times before. I dressed in comfortable yet sophisticated clothes: a pair of khakis and a silky blue short-sleeved top. My shoulder-length brown hair had to be pulled back into a tail out of my face, and therefore out of the food. I grabbed my coat and my purse, stepped over a box marked “books” and another marked “pillows” even though they weighed the same, before remembering my hearing aids.
Crap. I was too used to my old job, where I needed the quiet to work and no one bothered talking to me anyways. Now, I needed to communicate. Back in my bedroom, I opened the small dehumidifier container and pulled out one behind the ear shell, popped in the battery, and let it whistle as I fit it to my ear. I grabbed the other only to have the shell hang loosely from the mold, before it disconnected and fell back to the cushion inside the humidifier.
What the hell?
In my hand, the ear mold and tubing remained attached to the barest sliver of the mechanical portion of the crescent shell; the rest lay by my fingertips, exposing the inner workings of the hearing aid.
I tried to push the two parts together, say a magical word, and, voila, enchant it back together again. Only it limped apart, a useless piece of garbage. I kicked my bedspread, swear words tumbling from my lips. Three hours
, that was how far away home—and my audiologist—was. Meanwhile, I had a half hour before I started my new job, down a hearing aid.
I glanced to the heavens and pointed an accusatory finger. “Whatever I did, I don’t deserve this. Stop blaming me for whatever wretched excuse of a person I was in a past life.”
My life wasn’t that bad, but when shit like this happened, my defenses rose. I left the useless aid on my dresser and bundled up my coat.
“Fake it until you make it,” I told myself. Unfortunately, I’d never been too good at faking my hearing.
I drove to the bakery north of Boston as the sun peeked over the horizon, straining to top the buildings and trees. Cars joined me on the road, other tired and weary people out for the early-early shift of the day. Even in this crowded city, a peacefulness existed. I took in the many buildings. Buildings meant people. People meant customers. I expected to find a different, faster rhythm at the bakery, and a jolt of excitement waved through me. I’d gone from a small start-up to a well-established and sought-after location. People in my hometown knew of Nell’s Place, and not just the bakery snobs like me. This was a dream job for me. A chance to start over. An opportunity to learn and fulfill Erik’s dream. I went over my plan in my head as I waited at a red light: stay here for a year, two tops. Learn how to bake the most coveted rugelach in the area—no other place beat this version or variety of the sweet dessert. Then move back home, open my own shop, and live happily ever after. Mom would toss in meet a cute doctor and pop out a few grandchildren to that equation. I wasn’t going there. Not until I completed my promise to Erik.
Dick Guy rolled to mind, bringing on sharp emotional whiplash but the guilt not as strong as I would have expected, not anymore. The opposite, in fact. I wouldn’t mind getting to know that particular male appendage. But the guy probably lived off in the West Coast. It was for the best. Who knew what kind of trouble brewed with a guy willing to text a picture of his dick.
