Just My Type(11)

The only time I ever feel like myself, and like I can be myself since I moved to Chicago, is when I’m talking to Brooklyn and the rest of my family.

And in one stupid email to Shit Mouth. Who could be a serial killer. And doesn’t email back in a timely fashion. And most definitely got me fired as his transcriber. I’ve never been fired before. My approval rating will probably go down, which means less money.

Son of a bitch.

Sliding my laptop closer to me on the coffee table as the phone rings, I pull up my email and absolutely do not refresh it five times in annoyance because there still isn’t a reply from Shit Mouth. Or even from JMT telling me I’ve been fired from the project. Just this stupid email Brandon forwarded to me that makes me even more annoyed I didn’t tell him off, when I read the subject line.

“What’s up, fucko?” Brooklyn finally answers.

“I hate everything right now. Brandon sent me a link to a pharmaceutical study article.”

“Doesn’t he always send you those stupid links? Wasn’t that like, foreplay for him?” she asks as I refresh my email one more time.

“Don’t make me vomit. And this one was passive aggressive,” I inform her.

“Is the subject line of the email Passive Aggressive Pharmaceutical Study, or are you just assuming its gender?”

“The subject line of the email is FDA Approves Ketamine Nasal Spray to Treat Depression,” I reply in annoyance, moving Brandon’s stupid email to the trash.

“Oh, shit,” she mutters. “Well, maybe he was just being nice. Maybe he sent it to everyone on his contact list.”

“Or maybe he feels sorry for me and wants me to snort my way to happiness,” I reply sarcastically.

“See, now it doesn’t sound so bad when you say it that way.”

Refreshing my email one more time, I let out a shocked gasp when I see there’s a new email from JMT, with Shit Mouth’s customer I.D. in the subject line. I quickly open it and see I have a new file that’s been added to my account by him, for me to transcribe.

Holy shit, he didn’t fire me.

“I gotta go. Shit Mouth finally replied,” I tell Brooklyn, having kept her updated since I decided to take her advice and reply to him.

“Awww, yeah. Ember’s gonna get her some big muscle, tiny dick lovin’!” Brooklyn shouts with a whistle.

“Fuck off. I’ve had one email exchange with the guy. He could live halfway across the world for all we know. I’m just making sure he isn’t a serial killer before I continue to work with him, since he knows my damn name. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

We say goodbye, and I end the call, grabbing my headphones and sliding them on as I get comfortable on the couch and set my laptop on my thighs. He didn’t reply to my email, and that’s fine. At least he still wants me to do this job that pays really well and I desperately need. I thought maybe we could have a little friendly banter back and forth while I worked on his project and gave him some more super helpful audio recording tips, but clearly he wants to keep this professional now. Totally fine with me.

Opening up the file, I adjust the volume just in case Shit Mouth didn’t listen to my enunciation advice. All of a sudden, a voice is speaking in my headphones that’s the same voice I heard on the last recording, but… not.

“I am sitting closer to the microphone for interview number two, and I promise to e-n-u-n-c-i-a-t-e. Don’t shoot me with your shit-ton of guns.”

This voice isn’t full of shit and talking so low I can barely hear him. It’s the same voice as last week, but now it’s deep and raspy and confident, instead of quiet and mumbly and awkward. And if a smirk had a sound, his voice would be it.

I hear him shuffle and get even closer to the microphone. He lowers his voice, and hell, if it doesn’t sound like he’s sitting right next to me, speaking softly in my ear.

“Purple, purple, purple. See? Nothing like burnt hole, God. Please make sure you transcribe this masterpiece post haste, Ember.”

This voice is… goddamn melted honey in my ear holes, especially when he says my name.

“Why is your name Baker?” Skanky Giggler suddenly asks, her nasally voice completely ruining the eargasm I was having.

“My mom saw the name Baker in a baby book, and my dad approved. That’s about it.”

Okay, I get the name Baker now. I get it when I hear him say it. He makes it sound like a hot guy name. Too bad I’m picturing a big, muscly, oily guy with a tiny head, who walks around in a Speedo thong, with an orange Jersey Shore tan. He shouldn’t have a voice like this. It’s not fair. Whatever. I know I’m stereotyping again, but I can’t help it. I’ve been to gyms before. I’ve seen the guys who frequent them, standing in front of the mirror, kissing their tree trunk arms. I would assume a guy who owns a gym would be even worse.

“Why did you open your own gym?” Skanky Giggler asks.

“Because I wanted a place to squeeze fresh orange juice with my biceps, and wipe my own ass.”

I snort and laugh out loud at the same time Baker replies, which causes me to choke a little.

“Ooooooh, show me, show me!” Skanky Giggler shouts excitedly, and I’m pretty sure I hear her bouncing up and down in her chair.

“I immediately regret this decision. Tell me she’s referring to the oranges and not wiping my ass,” Baker whispers as quietly as possible, closer to the microphone.