Wrong Number

by Laura Brown

  I’d always had my hearing loss, so for me this was normal. Frustrating and isolating at times but normal.

  Hannah shifted on her feet. “I’m going to be nosy for a minute but not about your ears. The high holidays are coming up and, with a last name like Bloom, I figured it best to ask if you needed them off.”

  Perk of working in a Jewish bakery, I didn’t need to worry about taking time off so close to being hired. “You figured right. And yes, I would like them off, if possible. I had hoped to travel home and join my parents at our temple.”

  Hannah pulled out a small tablet and made a few notes. “Not a problem.”

  “You don’t close down for the holidays?”

  Hannah put her tablet away. “No, we’ve always had enough non-Jewish employees that it all works out. Plus, our sales warrant us remaining open.”

  The door to the front opened and Jake appeared, hair still in those perfect waves that made my fingers itch to mess it up. He moved in a slightly halting manner and, for the first time, I realized he had a limp. He held no signs of injury, and I wondered if I had simply missed it the other day or if he had hurt himself.

  He headed for Hannah.

  “Where’s Mom?” he asked. “I’m forcing her to take a lunch break.”

  I checked him out from head to toe, looking for those potential signs of injury, but all I got were sturdy legs, strong arms, and wide shoulders.

  Hannah looked at the clock on the wall. “Since when do you ever get a lunch break?”

  “Since a back-to-back appointment canceled. Figured I’d make the most of it.” He rubbed his hands together and noticed me standing there. A warmth came to his brown eyes, the kind that jumped off him and slammed into me. He gave me a nod. “Hey, Avery. They treating you well?”

  I swallowed and willed my voice to be steady. “Can’t complain.”

  He smiled, revealing white teeth, as though we had a secret only the two of us knew about. A secret I sincerely wished we had.

  “Mom’s in her office. She’s handling bills, so be prepared.”

  “Then food is definitely in order. Wish me luck.” And with that, Jake limped toward the back offices.

  Hannah didn’t appear to pay his gait any attention.

  “What happened to his leg?” I clamped my hands over my mouth. “Sorry, I sometimes speak before thinking.”

  Hannah threw her head back and laughed, her perfect bob all but floating around her face.

  “We do that all the time. It’s a Ruben trait.” She sobered and leaned in close. “We had a house fire when Jake and I were kids. His leg got badly burned.”

  Horror choked me, but Hannah still had a lightheartedness about her.

  I did my best not to react. “How horrible. I’m so sorry.”

  Hannah brushed me off. “Don’t be. It is what it is. And he’s fine now; the rest of us were fine. Dad left shortly after. I was only six, but I have memories of him being this great father. And then Jake’s in the hospital, we’re staying at my grandparents, and Dad’s gone.”

  Still, I found it hard to brush off something so extreme. Granted, my ears were a part of me, and many people would hate dealing with my hearing loss. I took my pity and tossed it aside. Jake clearly didn’t need it.

  “Well then, I’m glad it all worked out.”

  Hannah studied me. “I like you. How are you settling in?”

  I shrugged. “Okay, I guess. I don’t know anyone here, not really. A bit of a fish out of water.”

  “We need to plan something. Jake and I can show you around, get you out of the house one night. What do you say?”

  Jake returned, holding his mother’s hands as he walked backward, dragging her with him. I couldn’t hear what was said, but they both wore smiles, his accentuating a rugged jawline.

  Hannah’s laughter brought me back to her. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Then she tapped the table and moved off, tackling her brother with an arm around his shoulder and giving him a smacking kiss on the cheek.

  I didn’t know much about the Rubens, but they were definitely a close-knit family. I’d venture that surviving the fire played a part in who they were today. It kicked off that pang, a touch of homesickness. I was close to my parents, more so when I didn’t feel suffocated by their worries over Erik’s death and my sleep and…everything.

  I wanted what I saw, fun and happy moments. Granted, they probably got on each other’s nerves plenty. The view hit me as something missing from my life, something I didn’t know if I’d ever get. I’d had a version of that with Erik, even if we were more business partners and friends near the end. The love had fizzled months earlier as we focused on our bakery dreams. His bakery dreams. I was the one along for the ride, to stay in the kitchen and do my thing. Without his guidance this whole endeavor grew large and scary. We had worked for so long and so hard, I couldn’t let his dream die with him.

  My phone was in my hands before I thought things through. Of all the people I could contact, I wasn’t sure what it meant that I texted Dick Guy.

  Me: Having a homesick moment.

  Since it was foolish to reach out to an absolute stranger before people I was actually homesick from, I shoved my phone away and got back to work.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jake

  Me: Don’t be homesick. There has to be something you can do to remind you of home, right?

  Message sent. I set my phone facedown on the table, my skin crawling at the sensation of four eyes watching me far too carefully. I met my family’s stares, doing my best to put a teasing glint on my face. My hand lingered on my phone and the curved surface confirmed it lay facedown. No telling what Wrong Number might text me, even if she wasn’t flirting. Yet.

  Hannah leaned her elbows on the restaurant table and settled her chin in her hands. “Who’s that?”

  I reached for my water. Said nothing.

  “If that’s Diana, I swear to God—”

  “It’s not Diana.” Diana was done, over. The reason why I wasn’t homesick in another state far away from home like Wrong Number. If I had followed Diana, I wouldn’t have these impromptu lunches with my family.

  “You sure? You have that look.” Hannah waved her hand around my face.

  “Look?”

  “Yeah the I’m-about-to-fall-off-the-deep-end look.”

  I gave her the I’m-about-to-kill-you look.

  “Well this isn’t good. I wanted him to give Avery that look,” Mom said, placing her phone on the table, facedown like mine, no longer checking on who knew what related to the bakery.

  I glanced around, wondering why I took my family out rather than grab a burger on my own. Maybe I should have checked and seen if Avery had taken her lunch break instead.

  “Jake.” Hannah shook her head. “Just promise me it’s not Diana.”

  “I thought for sure that was over and done with,” Mom said.

  I shifted back and sighed. Too much interrogation. “You two can stop worrying. It’ll never be Diana, not again. I made my decision and she made hers. You two can quit with the inquisition.”

  It grated that she’d choose leaving over me, but that only meant it wasn’t right. She knew I couldn’t leave, not until I knew the bakery had more than just my mom and sister at the helm. She refused to understand why.

  Both women crossed their arms. They sure knew how to push my buttons and piss me off. But family stuck.

  “Is it so wrong I want to see my son happy?”

  I glowered at Mom. “Enough with the guilt. You’ve got two happy children, isn’t that enough?”

  “Two happy and single children.” Mom switched her glare to Hannah.

  “Oh, now I’m in the spotlight. Thanks, Jake.”

  “My pleasure. Always happy to share.”

  Our food arrived, giving me a welcome reprieve as we dug into our meals. I was hungrier than I thought and had half my burger demolished before I looked up at the stares.

  “Do you feed yourse
lf, boy?” Mom picked at her salad.

  I slowed my chewing, my stomach sending up a “what the hell, man?” at the delay. “Occasionally.”

  “We should be grateful he decided to break his fast by taking us out to lunch,” Hannah said.

  I swallowed. “What is this, Yom Kippur?”

  Mom stole a french fry from my plate. “You wouldn’t be breaking Yom Kippur fast at lunchtime at a restaurant.”

  My elbow picked up vibrations from my phone, and I forced myself not to check. Both Mom and Hannah eyed the noisemaker. Mom didn’t like the vibrate setting, so we all knew it wasn’t hers. Though I had no doubt her phone was on mute, notifications piling up, and she’d be itching to check like me. “So, Mom, when are you going to take a break yourself?”

  Mom dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Ahh, now the real reason for this meal comes out. No good deed goes unpunished, boy.”

  “When was the last time you took a vacation?”

  “Because neither one of us can remember,” Hannah said.

  “And that says a lot about your work/personal life balance,” I said.

  “You’re overdue.”

  “My, my, tag team much?” Mom took a deep breath. “Why would I take a vacation? I love my bakery, I love my children, and I’m perfectly happy.”

  Yet her smile had grown tight and a crease popped up on her forehead.

  “We didn’t ask if you were happy. We know you’re happy. You still deserve to take a step away from all this once in a while.”

  Tight smiles and forehead creases aside, Mom loved her job, and I grew up knowing she wouldn’t want it any other way. Still, a vacation was a vacation, and everyone benefited from breaks now and then.

  “Like a nice impromptu lunch with my two darling children?”

  “Dammit, we’re out. Mom won this round,” Hannah stage-whispered to me, even though we both knew Mom heard, as revealed by the smug way she forked up a bite of her salad, no more creases.

  My distraction gone, I reached for my phone, snagging a fry as I read.

  Wrong Number: Not sure. It’s more a feeling, a sense of not belonging. I miss that, being welcome, wanted, and known.

  Me: I don’t know you well, but you’re wanted. It might not be the comfort of home, but the only way to get that comfort is to continue to get to know others.

  This woman belonged somewhere. Heck, she belonged at this table, with my family, in some odd complex scenario. If I found her special in just a few short text exchanges, then surely someone else would want to get to know her better in her real life.

  Wrong Number: I guess you’re right. Just hard in the meantime. And look at that, you didn’t even ask me to take my top off.

  Me: Hey, I can be a nice guy occasionally.

  She made it easy to enjoy the sexy, flirty side of her as well as the hints at the real person underneath. I liked these tame chats as much as the erotic ones. Time to push them aside and refocus on the real people in my own life. I shoved my phone into my back pocket and returned to my burger, ignoring the silence that accompanied the skin crawling. No chance in hell they weren’t watching me.

  “Who are you texting?” Mom asked.

  “Just some random person.”

  “Uh huh,” both women said simultaneously.

  They didn’t bring up Diana again, or prod into who I really chatted with, for which I was grateful, even if it meant ignoring my back pocket when my phone vibrated again. After the meal, I dropped them off at the bakery before heading to the salon where I worked, a hole in the wall place the next town over. Its style was modern and simple, without the frills of a higher-end place. Didn’t stop the waitlist clientele we had. I preferred places like this, understated and focused on the product. My next client had already arrived, and for the next few hours my hands were kept busy and away from my back pocket. Finally, I hit a breather. I could have gone to the bathroom or grabbed a soda. I checked my phone.

  Wrong Number: I can’t believe I’m typing this to an obscene texter, but, yes, you can be nice occasionally. You’ve already been a great help to me. So thank you.

  There was something about this woman. I wanted to know more about her. Where she lived. What her name was. What she looked like. The depth to which I wanted these things shocked me. Not my usual behavior. I had no plans to stop.

  Me: You’re welcome. I may not be in a new place, but I’m enjoying this.

  Wrong Number: That’s because you talk dirty to me.

  Me: I have never said anything to you. But I can call.

  Wrong Number: No. Don’t call.

  Me: Fine. Dirty is fun. And you keep bringing it up…

  “Jake? Your next appointment is here,” the receptionist called out.

  Damn. Playtime over.

  The rest of my day consisted of back-to-back customers, then meeting up with Carter at the gym, where he tried to out bench-press me and failed but kicked my ass in a run around the track.

  I arrived home smelly, with my shirt now cool and stuck to me. Upon emptying my pockets, I uncovered my phone, and the text I hadn’t notice come in.

  Wrong Number: Maybe you should take off your shirt this time.

  I headed for my bathroom.

  Me: I just got back from the gym. I’m hot and sweaty and about to jump in the shower.

  Wrong Number: Yeah, I’m going to need you to take off your shirt and bring me with you.

  I froze on my way down the hall, my heart rate picking back up as if I had returned to the track. Then I pulled off my shirt.

  Me: You might want to keep your distance until I get some soap on me.

  Wrong Number: Don’t forget the beauty of fantasies. I don’t have to smell you.

  Me: You know I can’t actually take my phone with me. It’s not waterproof.

  Wrong Number: Bummer.

  I wanted her to be real. The craving grew from my gut, a heady dose of desire and lust. I wanted her to be local, and in my shower, waiting for me.

  Me: I’m in the bathroom now, starting the water. Now what?

  My dick was eager to get in and find out how far I could get her to go. At the very least, I had my own fantasy worked out, and it promised to be a good one.

  Wrong Number: Well, you wouldn’t want to get your clothes wet. Did you already remove your shirt?

  Me: Yup.

  Wrong Number: Then your pants should follow.

  She didn’t have to ask twice, not with the way I strained against the mesh fabric. I undid my laces and pulled off my shoes, before stripping out of my track pants.

  Me: Now, I’m naked except for my socks.

  Wrong Number: LOL, then you should probably take care of that.

  I sat on the closed toilet seat to remove my socks, the cold seat doing nothing to dampen the mood.

  Me: Done. Where are you?

  Wrong Number: Watching.

  My dick grew impossibly harder. Watching. No one ever watched me with any form of lust before, not that I let them. This fantasy would be my new favorite, especially as it would never be real.

  Me: Come here. You’re wearing too many clothes for a shower.

  The room began to steam up, and my phone turned quiet.

  Me: Or am I showering alone?

  Wrong Number: I’m joining you. Why don’t you get clean and then we can finish together.

  Me: Give me five minutes.

  I hopped into the shower, reminding myself I had more fun waiting for me, rather than thinking of this mysterious woman while running my hands over my soapy cock. It would have been more fun to finish under the water. There really needed to be more waterproof phones.

  After a hasty rinse, I shut off the water and wrapped a towel around my waist, droplets dripping down my body. My dick poked through the ends of the fabric and I hoped to get my hands on myself soon. I dried my hands and grabbed my phone as I sat on the toilet seat again.

  Me: Done. Wearing a towel now and a lot of water.

  Wrong Number: Drop the towe
l.

  She didn’t have to tell me twice. My eyes traveled over the scarred skin on my left leg. Wrong Number probably thought I was standing and pictured two normal legs. All part of the fantasy. I shifted my leg to a more comfortable position.

  Me: Done. Where are you?

  Wrong Number: On my bed. Naked.

  Damn, she was bold tonight. I needed a video cam to see her lying there, waiting for me. Such a difference in only a few interactions.

  Me: What happened to my shy texter?

  Wrong Number: Long day. Needing a little reprieve.

  I sucked in a breath. What I wouldn’t give to be her recharge. To give her the same erotic images floating around in my mind, grazing over my skin.

  Me: How far do you want to go?

  Because I was two steps away from grabbing myself while we messaged back and forth.

  Wrong Number: I’m not sure. Is that a problem?

  Me: Not at all, trying to gauge how to proceed.

  Wrong Number: You lead. I’ll let you know.

  Me: Still lonely?

  Wrong Number: You want to kill the mood?

  Me: Oh, I want many things, one of which is to kiss you senseless and run my tongue over your body. But I also want to know what you really need.

  Wrong Number: More tongue. Less worry.

  Damn, I was just about as hard as I’d ever been and we’d only exchanged words, and not that dirty. Not yet. I wrapped my hand around myself, no longer able to resist.

  Me: Anything you want. Where are your hands?

  Wrong Number: Why would you ask that?

  Me: Because I’m jerking off and want to know where you’re imagining my tongue.

  Wrong Number: So you assume I’m touching myself?

  Me: Aren’t you?

  Wrong Number: Yes.

  Oh yeah. I tightened my grip.

  Me: Top or bottom.

  Wrong Number: Top.

  I grew impossibly harder as I imagined the texture of her skin.

  Me: Then I’ve finally got my mouth where I placed that cute bow.

  Wrong Number: This is ridiculous.

  Me: You aren’t enjoying yourself?

  Wrong Number: That’s the problem. I am.

  I grinned and picked up my pace, only slightly upset that it took me longer to type one handed.