Mr. Wrong Number(14)

Who, apparently, would require the slow block.

Lawd. I really need to stop thinking about him.



* * *



? ? ?

I’D RACED THROUGH my chores and was finally done with my assignments, so I was going to have a little fun and converse with Mr. Wrong Number for a bit. I dropped down to the raft-bed, feeling pathetically excited as I grabbed my phone and opened my messages.

And—yes—there was one from him, sent thirty minutes ago.


Mr. Wrong Number: Come out and play.



Butterflies flitted through my stomach as I lay back on the bed and smiled down at the phone. What do you want to play?


Mr. Wrong Number: Such a loaded question from the lady.



I knew the dude was a troll, but I still felt flirty.


Me: How about twenty questions?

Mr. Wrong Number: I thought we wanted to stay anonymous.

Me: We do. Maybe . . . twenty questions about things we like.

Mr. Wrong Number: Sexually?



“Wow.” I looked at the phone and wasn’t sure how to respond.


Me: That seems like it’s crossing a line, doesn’t it?

Mr. Wrong Number: It does, but it sounds fun, too.

Me: Okay, well, let’s keep it clinical.

Mr. Wrong Number: What does that even mean?

Me: I don’t know. Like, discussing sex without being intimate.

Mr. Wrong Number: So we’re like an old married couple?

Me: No, we’re like scientists discussing data.

Mr. Wrong Number: Permission to request an example.

Me: Granted.



I stared into space, smiling and trying to think of something. I typed, Sample question: What is your favorite position? Sample answer: Missionary.


Mr. Wrong Number: Please tell me the sample answer isn’t your actual boring-ass answer.

Me: I cannot answer until the game officially begins.

Mr. Wrong Number: Let’s go.

Me: Wait. If you’re a really freaky dude, like into stuff that requires chat rooms to meet others like you or if you have a special sex room, I would like to respectfully bow out of this game. No judgment, but we’re just on different levels.

Mr. Wrong Number: What if it’s just a tiny sex closet?

Me: Tiny Sex Closet. Band name—called it.

Mr. Wrong Number: Question One—What’s your favorite position?

Me: I like being on top.

Mr. Wrong Number: Question Two—Traditional on top, or reverse cowgirl?



That made me literally laugh out loud, and I rolled onto my stomach.


Me: Okay, what is with that? First of all, who names sexual positions? Is it high schoolers? It has to be because the names are so idiotic. Unless a Stetson is a requirement for the position. Then it is perfectly appropriate. Secondly, if any female says reverse cowgirl is her favorite, she’s lying. The angle is all wrong and who wants to use knobby knees for leverage?

Mr. Wrong Number: Wow. Tell me how you really feel.

Me: Okay, your turn. Question One: What’s your favorite position?

Mr. Wrong Number: I like the missionary/from-behind combo.

Me: I didn’t know we could do a combo. And I thought you said missionary was boring.

Mr. Wrong Number: No, I said it’s boring for you. I’m really good at it, though.



I rolled my eyes and set down the phone. What was wrong with me? Why was I feeling so giddy, talking to a stranger? I’d seen every episode of MTV’s Catfish; I knew the facts.

But still, I was smitten with my anonymous friend.

The only thing that made my affinity for this weird texting connection okay was that I wanted this guy to be anonymous forever. I didn’t ever want to meet him or get to know him in real life; that would ruin whatever made this so great.

So I was fine to play a little.

I opened the door and went into the kitchen for some water. I needed to cool down a bit or I’d end up sending boob pics to a stranger like some sort of irresponsible college girl. I walked over to the fridge, and just as I was opening it, Colin came out of his room.

Oh, sweet Lord.

He was shirtless and shredded, wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs that showed off the corded muscles in his thighs, and I felt the heat rush up my chest and burn my cheeks as I quickly trained my eyes on his face.

Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down.

“Hey.” I struggled to make my suddenly dry mouth form words. “I didn’t know you were back.”

“Well, I am.” He walked over, completely confident in his underwear. He looked a little less sarcastic than usual, somehow a little softer as he gave me a half grin. “Looks like it’s a thirsty night for everyone.”

Wow. Thirsty.

And so much naked.

I cleared my throat and grabbed two bottles of water. “Definitely.”

I extended one to him and he took it, his voice a little scratchy when he said, “Thanks.”

I think I managed to say blerg-g’night or something equally eloquent.

When I got back to my phone, I read Wrong Number’s message and felt a little giggly.


Mr. Wrong Number: Last question for the night. Long and slow, or fast and furious?



I imagined there was a sexy eloquence I should invoke, but I couldn’t stop myself from my knee-jerk answer.