Dance With Me (With Me in Seattle #12)(39)

“What is it?”

“A dick pic.” I throw the card on the floor outside of the box. “That’s the trash pile.”

“Okay, that’s funny.”

“Not funny.” I take a bite of chicken. “Let’s wait to look through the rest until after I’m done eating. Just in case.”

“Good idea.” She eyes the card on the floor. “Was it at least a good dick pic?”

“Does that exist?”

“I mean, if you were to send me one, it would be a good one.”

“It’s not my dick, and I won’t ever be sending you a photo of it. You can just see it in real life.”

She’s giggling now, holding her sides with the hilarity of it all.

“I don’t understand the dick pic. Do men really think we want to see that? Are y’all so proud of what God gave you that you can’t help yourselves from showing it off? Because I have to tell you, as a female, we do not want photos of your penis. I enjoy your penis, and I still don’t want a keepsake photo of it. Dicks aren’t the most attractive part of the male anatomy.”

“I’m uncomfortable with this conversation.” I shift in my seat and frown at my salad. “I don’t send pictures of myself naked.”

“Oh, men don’t even have to be naked to send them. All they do is just whip them out and snap a photo. It’s disgusting.”

“How often do you receive them?”

“Daily.”

I choke on my lettuce and have to take a drink of water. “Daily?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s a common occurrence. And I’d bet women who aren’t famous get them on the regular, too. Men are just . . . proud. And it’s baffling.”

“I can’t say that I know anyone who does that.” I shake my head as Starla shoves her empty salad aside and wipes her mouth.

“Okay, let’s get this over with.”

She pulls out a letter and reads it, then smiles as she tucks it back into the envelope and sets it aside. “This is the keep pile.”

“What did it say?”

“It was from a young girl who said she enjoys my songs. She was very sweet. Those are my favorites. They just sound so innocent.”

We both reach for more mail, and over the next half hour, we read a wide array of messages, everything from the usual you’re my favorite artist to a marriage proposal that joined the trash pile.

“Come on, he was handsome,” Starla says, laughing her ass off.

“I’m so glad you’re finding the humor in this.”

“I had no idea that proposals and dick pics from strangers would make you so jealous.”

“Six dick pics,” I remind her. “In this box alone. What the fuck is wrong with people?”

“Proud,” she says again. “So damn proud.”

“I guess.” I reach for a bigger envelope and pull out a typed letter and a picture. Starla’s reading something else, and I don’t alert her to what’s in my hands.

Not yet.

The photo is of the two of us at the restaurant, sitting in the booth, before the rude waitress approached.

The image has been altered to look like we’ve both had our necks slashed, with blood coming out of our mouths, dripping onto the table.

I set it face-down on the table and read the letter.

Dear cunt,

God, I fucking hate you. Look at you, just out there living your life as if you shouldn’t feel guilty for anything. As if you’re innocent.

We both know you’re not innocent, you stupid bitch.

And I’m going to make you pay.

Looks like you have someone who means something to you now. I’ll make him pay, too. Before I kill you slowly. I’ll torture him, right in front of your eyes so you can feel what I felt. It’s all your fault.

Soon.

Rage. Blinding, boiling rage is all I feel as I set the letter face-down over the photo and take a long, deep breath.

“Levi?”

“Give me a minute. Don’t touch this.”

I stand and walk to the back door, staring through the glass to the pool in the back yard. I need a second to reel in my emotions. I want to kill whoever sent this. I want five minutes alone with them so I can tear them limb from limb.

“Levi, talk to me.”

I turn to find her standing behind me, wringing her hands at her waist.

“You need to read this.”

I walk back to the table and retrieve the letter. Starla takes it from me, and her eyes scan the page, getting wider the longer she reads.

“My God.” She covers her mouth and reads it again. “What the hell?”

“There’s a photo.”

She looks up at me as a tear falls from the corner of her eye.

“Let me see.”

I want to say no. I want to shield her from this bullshit. But she needs to see it, so I pass it to her.

With one glance, she drops it to the floor and runs for the bathroom, heaving into the toilet.

I hurry after her and rub her back, then wet a washrag with cold water and press it to the back of her neck.

“Easy, baby.”

“I don’t understand,” she murmurs, reaching for the rag and wiping it over her face, her mouth. “What in the hell is happening?”