Mercy (Salacious Players Club, #4)(13)

But even after I swipe the app closed, I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m just too curious to let it go. It would be so easy to contact that profile. Start up a conversation. Meet up and know for sure if the whole thing is bullshit or not. But, of course, I’m not going to.

Like I said, they’re probably a creepy serial killer.

But…maybe they’re not.





Rule #6: Don’t flirt with internet strangers during the staff meeting.





Maggie





Garrett: The PR team needs the social media passwords again.





Hunter: Did you get the email I forwarded from the Dev team?





Mia: The decorations I ordered for Masquerade night weren’t signed for and now they’re stuck at the post office. Help!





Emerson: I need you to sit in on the staff meeting at noon.





“Ugh!” I toss my phone against the pillow. I’m literally standing in my towel with wet hair dripping all over my hardwood floor, checking messages that can all wait. Ringo lifts his head in concern after my little outburst, but quickly decides it’s not important and goes back to his nap.

In a rush, I pull clothes from my box-covered walk-in closet. There is no time for blow drying today, so I quickly run my fingers through my hair, mess it up a bit and hope for the best. As I stand in front of the mirror in my bra and underwear, I mentally scold myself for the weird bulges on either side of my hips and the stupid cellulite riddling my thighs. In the corner of my room, my exercise bike does more good as a laundry hanger and dust collector, taunting me with broken promises to finally get in shape, so maybe someday I can walk around in tight clothing with half the confidence of Mia or Eden.

Instead, I pick on myself in the bathroom, pinching the weird poochy underside of my stomach.

My phone is buzzing from my bed as I get dressed and throw on a thin layer of makeup and some eyeliner. When I finally pick it up from where I hurled it, I’m surprised to see that the notification is not from someone at the club, hounding me for favors, but from the Salacious app.

One new match in your area.

Uh…delete. My finger hovers over the app to decline it, but I suddenly find myself opening the notification instead. Call it curiosity or stubbornness, but I just want to see it before I erase it.

It opens to a mostly blank profile. The name is generic, to protect the identity. And the About Me section just says, this is stupid. Which isn’t surprising since the age and gender show: Male, 22.

Great, another grown man who needs babysitting.

“Hard pass,” I mutter as I carry my phone into the kitchen, answering emails and messages while simultaneously making myself a cup of coffee.

To Garrett: For the hundredth time, the passwords are in the drive.





To Hunter: Yes, and I already responded. It’s taken care of.





To Mia: I’ll stop at the post office on my way to the club.





To Emerson: Yes, sir. ;)





I’m smiling to myself as I mix in my hazelnut creamer and snap the lid on my overused travel mug. Then for some reason, I open the Salacious app again. It’s true what they say—a workaholic with nothing to do will find something to do. And while this isn’t really work, I busy my mind with scrolling through the matches sent to me. Mostly men, some with very thick profiles full of details about their lives and sexual preferences. It’s Cringe City in these match results. The more they tell me about themselves, the less interested I am.

Which is probably why I end up on the new guy again. A little mystery is sexier than too much information, I guess. Suddenly I find myself clicking on the Message button.

Me: Why is it stupid?





I say in response to his profile page.

I hit send without much thought. I have absolutely no intention of seeing this through, but for some reason, I want to mess with him. There’s something less intimidating about speaking to a guy, not even in the same generation as me, who takes this even less seriously than I do.

Also…and this is a big part of it…he matched with a certified Madame/Domme/Brat Tamer, which means his results came up as the opposite—submissive and/or brat.

I laugh to myself as I slip on my heels and gather up my stuff—laptop, phone, sunglasses—tossing them all in my bag. Certified Madame. Hilarious. I should really email the Dev team and let them know their algorithm is drunk.

My phone buzzes as I haul everything out to the car. I’m not sure why I feel almost disappointed that it’s not Mr. Stupid. Instead, it’s Mr. Boss Man responding to me saying, yes, sir, in our messages, just to tease him for all of his Dom-ness.

Emerson: Very funny. Knock it off.





Emerson: And thanks a million. You’re the best.





As I drop into the driver’s seat, I read his text and try, once again, to hate him. But it’s hard when he hurls compliments my way like their spears meant to break my cold, uncaring armor. And it’s working. Asshole.





The staff meeting is a bore. We have a floor crew now, managers and team leaders to keep the ship running tight, but Emerson insists that one of us sit in on them. It’s usually Garrett, but he sees his therapist on Tuesdays.