I nearly throw my phone into my front yard. That asshole. Before thinking my fingers move furiously, composing a response.Why?Send.
I expect a quick response this time, but honestly, he’ll probably ghost me. That seems more like him, but the email comes through just a few minutes later.
What is this in relation to?Avoiding my question. Nice.
Don’t think it’s a good idea to disclose through an email that’s public record.
Send someone else.
There is no one else.It seems against the laws of emailing that we’re responding this fast to each other.
I know that’s not true.I think for a moment. He’s right. We could send Grimm, Kilo, or even my brother, but they don’t have tits to distract him with. A thought pops into my head. Why am I so certain that he’d be distracted by tits? Honestly, I pray he’s gay. Then, the task can disappear from my consciousness, and I can throw up my hands and say I tried my best, at least in this aspect. But I have a feeling he isn’t gay. The way he assesses me always leaves me feeling bare. He hates me too much to fuck me, at least as of right now, but I know he’s thought about it. I could get him. Maybe it’s overconfidence. Maybe I’m just intrigued by the challenge. I’m not sure, but I must see this through. So far, I’ve done nothing to help, and this feels like something I can handle—maybe.
I breathe out. If I’m going to get anywhere with this man, I need to smooth things over. He’s never going to fall for my seduction if I continue to reveal my quills.
Okay. You’re right. There are others, but I don’t like how we left things. I want to make amends.My stomach clenches. God, does it feel horrible being even remotely nice to this man.
His response isn’t as fast this time, and my nerves tighten even more.Did someone hack your email?
No, this is Carmen Badson.
Hmm, that sounds like something a hacker would say.Is he being funny? Or does he honestly think my email has been hacked? I reread our messages. No, he’s just being a dick. What’s new?
Well, if I am a hacker, you can arrest me at the police station tomorrow when we meet.Weak response, but he’s not giving me much to work with.
You really want to be put in handcuffs twice this week?
So am I a hacker or Carmen?
Regardless, I could predict the meeting will end up with one of us detained.
My heart races, and an intrusive thought pops into my mind. I type it, hit send, and throw my phone. I stare at the screen on the ground from my porch swing, my knees brought up to my chest, and my fingers clamped by my lips.
It takes a while—forever in fact, but the screen lights up again. I scramble off the bench and grab the phone. Reading the response to my email, which said,Do you like that sort of thing?
This is why we can’t meet.Shit. Time to backpedal. What did I expect him to say? Humor and him are like water and oil.
Oh, God. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant, do you enjoy your job?Lie.
Sure. Is that why you want to meet? To ask me about my job satisfaction. That can be an emailed response.
No, that’s not why I want to meet. I’m just trying to be friendly.
I’m starting to actually think you’ve been hacked.
I groan. He’s so annoying, but I can’t deny the tremble in my fingers as I type my response.Why would someone hack me to get to you?
Don’t ask me to explain the logic of a criminal.Ironic, since he’s more than likely behind the disappearance and murders of multiple women. I don’t say this, obviously.
Listen, we can keep going back and forth, or you can agree to meet with me tomorrow afternoon at the station. All I want to do is apologize and explain the reason for my…I can barely type it,unkind behavior.
Idk, this is fun.
I smile unknowingly, shaking my head when I realize.Okay, I’m going to take that as a “Yes, Carmen. I’ll meet with you tomorrow at 4 p.m.”???
He takes a while to respond. I don’t move, staring at my phone.Fine, but no skirts.I reread the message five times. What the fuck is he talking about? No skirts?
I just send back question marks.
