by Jess Bentley
Bunny relies on me for this quality. She's resourceful in her own way, too. She's a problem solver. She likes to get in the middle of things. Where I might be stoic, she's active and reaching out and creating strategies, sometimes causing as many problems as she solves.
Which brings me to this morning.
I'm sick. I am paralyzed with worry. Bunny told me she had a plan… but that plan is a dumpster fire. I haven't even been able to look at my phone again. It just sits next to me on my desk, face down, jiggling slightly every once in awhile to let me know that something is happening.
But I can't look.
When I saw what she had done, I was appalled. Appalled may not even be the right word for it. Outraged? Astonished? All of that and more. Horrified, even. Mortified.
When we were in her kitchen and her mother called, I thought that she was just going to step a little bit out of line. Set up a meeting with Kirkman. Handle the awkward moments of trying to convince August that he should allow me to meet with Kirkman to snap a selfie. I thought that was the plan.
But instead, she went completely off the rails. She started sending these messages to August that sound like… porn. I mean, who talks like that? I don't talk like that. And then she handed back the phone to me and told me I was supposed to continue the charade this morning.
With what? More pictures of my cleavage? I don't know how to do this. And even if I did know how to do this, does it make any sense anyway?
I really need to reconsider my friendship with Bunny. She is out of control.
Her excuse was that he came onto her. In some ways, I suppose that's true. He did seem perfectly willing to talk. Okay, maybe he even liked it a little bit when she suggested that she wanted to touch him…
Just thinking about it makes my stomach twist up like the top of a bread wrapper.
“Hey, are you okay?”
I startle, looking up from my computer like a deer in headlights. Lori leans on the side of my cubicle, running her tongue over her front teeth as she scans the rest of the room over my head suspiciously. She's always doing that, looking around as though she's on some kind of reconnaissance mission.
“Yeah, I'm okay… why do you ask?” I mutter, then remember to smile professionally at her. Hopefully, she's just using my desk as a lookout post, not here to actually talk to me.
“I was wondering if you had a chance to set up that meeting with Kirkman?”
My stomach sinks. Looks like she's here to talk to me, after all.
“Well, not just yet,” I dodge. “I can't even get confirmation that he's actually here, to be honest. But I did hear that Penn and Teller are coming to the Arcada Theatre? Do you want me to look into that? I hear lots of people hate them.”
She scowls and glances down at me, almost looks through me like she doesn't even see me for a second.
“Wait, are you serious? No progress at all?”
“It's not that there's no progress…” I start again, shifting my eyes off to the side. “I mean, I have calls out. I should know by, um, maybe tomorrow.”
She breathes deeply for a few moments, then taps the back of her pen on the cubicle wall like it is some kind of punctuation. “Okay, that will work. I have a follow up conference call tomorrow afternoon, so just let me know by then, okay?”
My eyebrows go up. “Conference call? Do other people know about this?”
She glances down at me again, squaring off slightly. “I'm in frequent communication with the board. Just normal protocol to keep them apprised of new business, Dahlia. You don't have to be in on the call or anything.”
“Um, okay, that's good,” I stammer. The noise in my brain edges upward, drowning out rational thoughts.
“Where is Derek?” she asks suddenly, pointing her pen in the direction of his cubicle. “It's already nine AM. Is he always this late?”
“I really wouldn’t know,” I lie. Yes, Derek is always late. If she's making a list of people to fire, he should be near the top of that list. Also, he smells like onion bagels almost all the time.
She sighs deeply, her breath flaring her nostrils. “Okay,” she announces, clearly distracted, “just keep me up-to-date, Dahlia. I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I mumble as she walks away, somewhat afraid to be left alone with my thoughts now.
My phone buzzes again.
My brain swirls like a hurricane. Everything is going from bad to worse. I hate this feeling. I really don't know what to do, and sinking like a stone underneath it doesn't seem to be an option. I’m going to have to do something.
My fingers tremble as I reach out to flip over my phone. I've got dozens of notifications, but they’re almost all from Bunny.
Scowling, I thumb through the text messages. Also, I see she followed my fake Instagram account too. Well, that's subtle. She's using a lot of punctuation. She wants to know what's going on. Did I text him back? How did I finish the story that she started with him yesterday?
Oh yeah, that story.
Apparently, she started acting like we had met before. It was kind of confusing, the way it sounded like she was talking about Kirkman at first, but immediately she started telling him about this dream I had of him one time. I made the mistake of telling her about it in the first place. She was teasing me as usual about my inexperience and hesitation about men, and I thought I was defending myself, explaining the extremely naughty dream that I had about August one time.
And there, in the direct messages, she totally spilled the beans. She mentioned my hands on his body, trailing down. She mentioned that I wanted to touch him, which is exactly what I told her.
And then she told him she would tell him more later, and handed the phone back to me.
I open the Instagram account and click on August’s profile. He doesn't post that often, and it's a little strange too. It's like the men's magazine version of him, not the real August. Not the guy who sits silently next my dad while they watch sports on TV. Not the guy who helped push start my car one time. Instead, it's food pictures, drink pictures, a couple of sunsets and sunrises on the ocean. He likes to run in the early mornings, I know that. Other than that, this whole account would be unrecognizable.
I see the last message. More later, Bunny promised him when she was pretending to be me… or, pretending to be me pretending to be somebody else? I don't even know. It's so confusing.
But the things she was telling him was a real thing. A real fantasy. He certainly sounded intrigued.
Good morning, I type.
I stare at the phone for just a second, then slap it facedown back on my desk. Actually I have a half dozen emails I should be responding to. I could be doing all kinds of things. Database updates, for instance. I haven't quite gotten the hang of those yet. I should look into that…
My phone buzzes.
And my chest gets instantly tight. I feel excited, like I know there's a treat waiting for me in the kitchen. It doesn't make sense, but I feel it anyway.
Good morning to you, he writes back. Are you at work already?
Yes, I reply honestly.
…
What kind of work do you do?
He's profiling me, I suppose. He wants to know what kind of woman is texting him. Maybe thinks he knows who this is and is trying to narrow it down. Maybe he thinks I'm a man or a stalker or a Russian plant.
Customer service, I respond after just a few moments, not wanting to seem to take too long. It's not entirely a lie either. Probably best to stay with as much truth as I can.
What are you doing right now? he asks.
Bunny would tell me to say something sexy. She would tell me to entice him with something. Act mysterious. Flirt. The thing is, Bunny is really good at that. I don't think I am.
Just sitting here, thinking about you, I tell him honestly.
I remind myself that this is what I promised Lori, and it’s anonymous, and it's harmless. It's all right. I can always just walk away. There's no reason for my heart to be bang
ing on the inside of my chest like it's trying to escape.
Tell me.
My breath catches my throat. “Tell me.” That sounds so much like him it makes me shiver. I've heard him say those words in an encouraging way, sometimes in an accusatory way. I've heard the growl in his voice, the expectation that he will be obeyed. Maybe it is his military training, or maybe it's just his nature, that commanding presence that shakes something loose inside me.
What am I supposed to do?
I’m going to be honest, I decide suddenly. He may not know who I am, but I can’t keep track of Bunny’s schizophrenic person-inside-a-person charade. The only way I can do this and keep everything straight is to be myself, even if I’m not telling him everything.
Like my actual name, for instance.
I want to touch you, I start.
Tell me more.
I try to replay the dream in my head, hoping that if I get swept away by those images again, I'll somehow work up the courage to tell them about it. I remember when it happened. I woke up breathless and shivering, my body surging with blistering waves of heat.
I want to undress you, I continue. To trace the line from your chin down your chest. To open your shirt and drag my nails across your skin.
As soon as I send the message, I drop the phone down on my desk again and glance around, almost convinced that someone is going to be watching me. My heart is racing, and twin waves of guilt and excitement crashed through me at the same time. I almost expect people to sense what I'm doing, to casually walk past to witness the spectacle I'm surely creating.
But it is still early. No one seems to notice. I hear them murmuring on their phones, typing on their keyboards. Somewhere behind me an office door closes. The elevator doors ding and then open.
The phone buzzes.
Why do you want that? is his reply.
I just do, is all I can think to say.
Who is this?
I shiver, suddenly frightened. What do I say? I just convinced myself to tell him these tiny secrets that I've been holding inside me. And he wants more? Already?
In a panic, I text Bunny. He wants to know who I am! What do I do??
Don't tell him! she texts back immediately.
Yeah! DUH! But what do I do?
Send him a pic of ur panties, she suggests.
Shut up. Be serious!
I am being totally serious, she texts right back. You don't have to say anything with words. Whenever u get stuck… send him a picture of something. A nipple. Toes. Whatever.
You're serious?
Totes. Just turn on your flash and snap a picture up your skirt. Right now. Do it.
I chew on my lip, wondering about this. It actually doesn't seem like a bad plan. Certainly better than trying to come up with an explanation of who I am.
And after all, I did just promise myself to be honest. What's more honest than that? Isn’t a picture supposed to be worth a thousand words?
Glancing around, I make sure nobody's looking at me and then activate the camera app on my phone, making sure the flash is on. I stuff the camera between my knees and point directly at my crotch, snapping three pictures off, one right after another.
The pictures are kind of funny, with the flash creating dramatic lighting effects. My thighs are nearly white, spread open with the pale blue panties between. I can even see the fabric of my skirt at the top of the picture.
On second thought, I open the filter app and crop the photo, adjusting the highlights and saturation until it looks even more artful, like I might've even done this sort of thing before. After a few seconds, I'm satisfied with the picture in a kind of abstract way. It isn't until I click Send and shoot it through the Internet to August’s inbox that I realize what I've just done. I totally sent a nude picture, on purpose, to August Berner.
My belly clenches. I feel that wave of longing, that singular desire for him to see me. He's going to see part of me nobody else ever saw before. Any second now, August is going to know something about me no other man ever has.
Chapter 31
August
Ron flips between TV stations, trying to catch both the hockey and football games at once. He's always been really into sports. I try to fake interest, but I'm not sure I'm entirely convincing. Luckily, he doesn't expect a lot from me except to sit next to him and pretend to be interested. He just needs somebody to make it seem like he's not doing this by himself.
Finishing my beer, I scowl at the bottom of the dark brown bottle. Somehow, this is not doing it for me. The beers are going down too fast, and having no effect. I feel insatiably thirsty. Despite my better instincts, I think the Instagram messages are getting to me. It’s probably just some phony plot, but still I’m on edge. My stomach growls.
“Hey… got anything stronger?”
Ron thumbs the remote, aiming it high above his head. He quirks one eyebrow at me. “Stronger?” he repeats.
I shrug. “Still got that bottle of scotch?”
“Scotch… no, that's gone. I think there’s some tequila and maybe a bottle of vodka in the freezer. Maybe ask Dahlia to make you something when she gets back?”
I shift on the sofa, uncomfortable and edgy. I feel like I'm definitely going to try to stay away from Dahlia today. This thirst probably extends beyond just finding things to drink.
“No… never mind. It was just a thought.”
“It’s no trouble,” he says vaguely, squinting at the TV directory, rolling down through the listings to find whatever it is he's looking for. “She should be back with Bunny any minute now anyway. I think they're picking up Chinese.”
“Yeah… okay, maybe later,” I answer, just so I don't seem like I'm avoiding the question. He's not really paying any attention to me anyway, just trying to get the game he wants to watch.
I should probably go home. I keep imagining that my phone is going off in my pocket, but when I check it, there's nothing. Or sometimes there's something. But I'm all on high alert over this thing. Ron is bound to pick up on it sooner or later.
All day long, I have been getting intermittent texts. First thing this morning, she sent a snap of her panties, apparently photographed just seconds earlier. If it's Trina, she has expanded her ideas about lingerie. She always had strong thoughts about cotton in panties, and the evils of the clothing industry with regard to feminine health. That meant she always wore cotton panties. She never wore polyester, nylon, silk, not even lace which I would assume would be about as ‘breathable’ as you could get. She said that having something cute to look at wasn't worth bottling up her lady bits all day, risking a yeast infection or whatever.
These panties are definitely different. I want to look at them again, but I don't need to, I can still see them clearly in my mind. Shiny and blue, creased down the center so I could just see the hint of the separation of her lips. Just enough to imagine that she was wet, that she was actually slippery and ready for me already. A brilliant tease, considering how much time she spent convincing me that wanting to touch her lingerie was something of an abnormal fetish on my part.
Then I didn't hear from her for a few hours, until later in the day. She asked if I liked her story from earlier in the morning. The one where she talked about undressing me, getting her hands on me. I told her right away that I did like it. Then I wondered if maybe I should've been more calculating in my response.
What am I supposed to do? I don’t really understand what kind of game this is. If it's Trina, maybe she's testing me to see if I'll pay more attention to her this time? Showing me her panties to show that maybe she's willing to compromise as well?
But if it's not Trina… then I don't even know. What's the game? Just randomly sending texts back and forth with a stranger? For what purpose?
Almost on cue, my phone buzzes. I'm sure I'm really feeling it this time, so I slide it nonchalantly out of my pocket, noticing that Ron is completely enthralled by the football game on TV.
Now you send me a picture, it says.
I squirm slightly.
Why should I do that?
…
Because we are having fun, she says. Fun is good. Right?
I cut my eyes at Ron, making sure that he's not paying any attention to this.
Yes, I admit. Fun is good.
So send me a picture.
But I'm not wearing panties, I joke.
Even better.
Ron coughs into his hand, and I tuck the phone back into my pocket, semi-certain that she'll text me back fairly soon. A picture? I don't know. But then, what's the harm?
“So, hey, I wanted to ask you,” Ron begins, his eyes fixed on the television as though he doesn't want to look at me. His stiffness and discomfort make me instantly wary.
“Shoot,” I tell him.
“Yeah… not really sure how to say this. Do you remember Kelly? From my office?”
I reach back in my memory, trying to place a face with the name Kelly. Any face. Young face? Old face? Somebody with wavy hair, I think. I get a mental image of frizzy, thick hair, held back by a comb with a pink plastic flower in it. A pretty face, sort of doll like and pale, with freckles across the nose. Plump and appealing. Friendly and kind.
“From the block party?” I ask, fairly certain I've got the right woman. “She made a pie?”
“Yeah, she's the office pastry chef,” Ron chuckles. “Nice girl. She was asking about you.”
I shake my head, wondering if there's something I’m supposed to remember about her. “She needs a bodyguard? Private investigator or something?”
“No, dude,” Ron sniffs irritably. “Like, asking about you. You should take her out.”
“Oh!” I bark out. The volume of my voice takes me by surprise. “Kelly! You want me to ask Kelly out?”
He holds his hand out in midair, then lets it fall palm-down on his thigh.
“She thinks you're cute.”
For just a second, I try to imagine it. Sweet, freckled Kelly. She reminds me most of a baby seal, the kind you see in videos lying on their back, floating playfully downstream.
