Couldn’t be . . .
I type:
What happened to her?
The dots bounce again and my heart sits in my throat as I wait.
She had a reaction to the painkillers for her period pain.
What the fuck?
My hands go over my mouth . . . it can’t be him. There is no way in hell that this could happen by coincidence.
Shit . . . my heart is hammering hard in my chest. What will I write?
I think for a moment and eventually I type: I hope she’s okay. How horrible for you to experience that.
Oh my God, oh my God . . . Oh, my fucking God!
A reply bounces back.
Not horrible at all, maybe a blessing in disguise.
I leap out of bed and begin to pace as I shake my hands around, adrenaline surging through my bloodstream. “What the hell is going on here?” I whisper.
What do I write?
I type:
How could that be a blessing in disguise?
A reply bounces straight back.
I have a bit of a crush on her.
My eyes widen to the size of saucers, and with shaky hands I reply: What’s her name?
The dots appear again.
Kate . . . Kate Landon.
Chapter 6
“What?” I jump from the bed. “No way, no way in fucking hell.” He has to be pulling my chain.
Wait, does he know it’s me?
I sit back down at my computer and put my hand over my mouth as I think.
How could this be happening?
He set it up, yes, that’s it.
But then . . . how? I wouldn’t even know how to set this up and I’m the IT specialist.
“Does he know?”
I think for a moment; okay, set a trap to find out for sure.
Yes, that’s it.
I sit cross-legged on my bed and pull my hair up into a high ponytail as I prepare for battle.
If he writes something nice . . . I’ll know that he knows it’s me and is attempting to be smooth.
Okay . . . I hold my fingers at the keyboard.
I think for a moment, then I write:
What kind of crush?
I wait for his reply . . . no answer.
Hmm. I reword it.
Are you hoping for a grand love affair?
The dots reappear.
The horizontal kind.
No grand love affair, she isn’t my type.
I’m a garbologist remember, I have dirty things on my mind.
I smile in relief. Fuck-face . . . you aren’t good enough for me, anyway.
I reply:
And what does this girl do at your garbage depot?
It bounces back.
She cleans the toilets.
I laugh out loud. You wish, fucker.
A toilet cleaner isn’t dirty enough?
No.
What are you looking for—hot, smart, sexy?
I bite my thumbnail as I wait for his reply; why I care about this answer I have no clue.