Mercy (Salacious Players Club, #4)(12)

“I thought you were crashing here,” Dash replies.

“Not tonight, man. Thanks though. I’ll just grab a ride.” As I pull the door open, I feel a hand on my arm. It’s Dash, and when I spin around, I’m met with his concerned expression.

“You sure you’re okay? We were just messing around. We didn’t mean anything by it.”

I shrug. “Dude, I’m just in a weird headspace today. I think I just need to go home.”

“You wanna take a joint with you?”

I can’t help but smile. Out of all of my friends, Dash is definitely the most empathetic. Through every job loss and breakup, he’s been the only one who actually listened while the other guys figured beer and weed would do the trick. At least Dash offers his friendship and weed.

“No thanks, man. Have a good night.”

With that, I head out of the apartment and make my way down to my dad’s car. I drove here, but I’m still too high to get behind the wheel. It’s only a mile and a half anyway. And the weather isn’t bad for late April. So I take off down the busy road toward my mom’s house.

Maybe a long walk will help clear my head, so I can understand why the hell I got so worked up about that fucking app. I’m not exactly sure why, but for some reason, the first step in chilling the fuck out seems to be looking it up in the App Store.

It has almost a million reviews. And pretty good ones too. Which I assume at first are just a bunch of jerks like Victor, who think it’s a hookup app of the kinky variety.

But they’re not.

Finally! An app that normalizes healthy kinks.

Not your average hookup app. This one actually values kink-positive lifestyles!

I had no idea I even had a kink. Thank you, Salacious! Best sex of my life.

“Jesus,” I mutter. People really will post anything on the Internet.

It’s ultimately curiosity that gets the best of me and has me hitting the download button. I mean…just because I’m looking at it doesn’t mean I’m going to turn into some kinky freak like my dad.

As I reach the crosswalk, I open the newly downloaded app and follow a few prompts like age, sexual preference, location. After crossing the street, I open it back up to find myself at the beginning of a quiz.

No, fuck this. I can’t take this quiz.

Clicking off my phone, I shove it into my pocket and walk into the gas station on the corner to get myself something to drink. But the entire time I’m standing at the soda fountain, I’m thinking about that quiz. I bet if I took it, it would tell me I’m just safely classified as a normal guy with healthy sexual cravings.

If it’s a legit quiz, that’s exactly what it’s going to say. I mean, who needs an app to tell them what their sexual preferences are? Shouldn’t people just know what they want?

After paying for my soda and walking back out to the road, I open the app again. My high has worn off enough that I can focus a little clearer on the questions now. And I decide to take the stupid quiz because I have nothing better to do and I’d like to prove them wrong. Who, I don’t even know.

Do you consider your taste in sex normal? Duh. Yes.

You are good at making decisions. Agree or disagree. Um…not exactly a sex question, but I guess if I had to choose, it would be disagree.

Does it bother you to be seen naked or seen pleasuring yourself? What the fuck? I mean…bother me? I don’t love the idea, but it doesn’t bother me. So, no.

Are you interested in having sex with multiple partners? At once? No.

You use sex as a form of escapism. Agree or disagree.

My fingers pause over the screen for a moment. Why are they asking me this? Who doesn’t use sex to escape? Yes.

Do you tend to find sexual partners you consider out of your league? Sure. Again…who doesn’t?

The next round of questions sounds more like actual sex questions. And I find myself flying through them, sure as hell that I’m not answering anything out of the ordinary. These are things everyone wants.

So when the screen starts generating the results, just as I turn onto the street to my mother’ house, I’m wearing a smug smile. But when the screen pops up with a list of kinks, I freeze in my tracks.

Experimental.

Brat.

Submissive.

I read the last one a few times because I’m worried I’m still high and confusing that word with another one. Submissive.

Then I let out a hearty laugh, standing under the street light. Submissive? This stupid quiz is a joke. Even if this is my “kink,” it doesn’t mean I have any desire to be bossed around by a lady in black leather. Just because some people like this stuff doesn’t mean it’s for everyone.

Those kinky bastards can have all the fun they want, but I’ll stick to regular sex. It does the job just fine. With a swipe, I close out the app and pick up my walk again.

But as I’m opening up Instagram, a notification pops up on my screen, and I come to a standstill.

One new match in your area.

What the hell does that mean? Against my better judgment, I click the notification. It flashes to the app again, but now I’m staring at a profile. There’s no picture, and the profile name is nothing but a jumble of numbers and letters. The only things it says are Female and kinks: Dominant, Master/Mistress, Brat Tamer.

That’s it. For all I know this lady could really be an eighty-year-old dude, who may or may not be a serial killer using the app to lure in unsuspecting submissives. Never in a hundred years would I ever message this person or agree to meet them. And especially not just because an app says we like the same stuff in the bedroom based off some internet quiz.