Just My Type(14)

BAKER

Great Ass


To: Ember Hastings

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Shit Mouth Transcription

I never said I was sending you a picture of myself. I said I was sending you a picture of my current view. Which would be of my grandmother, on visiting day at the state penitentiary. Nana Grand Funk. She’s doing time. Hard time. She ain’t got time for your bullshit. She’s seen some things. That cane is actually a shank she whittled out of a toothbrush. Her needlepoint says Fuck these bitches and hos.

I’d tell you that you suck at boosting someone’s spirits, but you told me I had, and I quote, “A deep, raspy, manly voice.” So, you basically think I’m hot. Which means you have a thing for guys you still possibly believe are in prison. Or on steroids. You have a steroid prison kink. My, my, how the tables have turned.

I don’t think they have, because I have not admitted to any of my kinks (Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes absolutely DO belong in the bedroom. Don’t @ me), I’ve just always wanted to say that. I’m going to be of no use to you when you find out I don’t have any prison tats, and my thighs aren’t the size of a tractor tire. I mean, I do have fairly impressive guns. Not tree trunk guns, but I could definitely open up that troublesome jar of pickles for you without any effort.

Speaking of serial killers, I think we should meet

“Who’s Ember Hastings, and why do you want to meet her?”

My body jolts in the office chair, and I quickly slam my laptop closed. Spinning the chair to the right, I lean back into it, cross my arms in front of me, and glare at my sister.

“Also, why did you have a picture of Wilford Brimley up on your screen? Were you jerking off to the oatmeal guy?”

Annoying older sister aside, I can’t stop the little chuckle that comes out of my mouth when I think about the picture Ember sent of “herself.” Blake reaches her hand out toward my laptop, and I quickly drop the smile and smack her hand away.

“How much did you read?”

“Somewhere around the time you said you don’t wear tank tops to show off your guns,” Blake says, looking pointedly at my bare arms with a smirk. “Liar.”

“This is an Under Armour compression tank with breathable fabric,” I argue. “I just got done with a new client assessment workout. I didn’t wear it to show anything off.”

“So, is this Ember person what made you smile just now, or were you really dreaming of lying on a white sandy beach with Wilford in a bikini?” Blake asks, leaning her hip against the edge of my desk, crossing her arms over her chest, and mirroring my pose.

“Don’t make a big thing out of it,” I mutter with a roll of my eyes.

She’s going to make a big thing out of it.

“I’m sorry, but my brother didn’t look like a completely miserable sack of shit for a few seconds there, for the first time in months, and I’d just like to pinpoint what did the trick so we can repeat it. Unless it’s Wilford porn. I don’t know if I can get on board with that.”

Fucking hell…

I know my sister means well. I know I’ve been a huge pain in the ass the last few months. And I have been a miserable sack of shit and annoyed with everything and everyone. Until midnight on a Saturday two weeks ago, when I was mistakenly sent a transcription file, and I laughed out loud all by myself here in the office at the gym. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d genuinely laughed at something without forcing it lately. I smiled the whole way through typing up that first reply to Ember, and I haven’t stopped smiling and laughing through each and every email exchange we’ve made so far. I feel a stab of guilt that I never mentioned this to Blake. We’ve always told each other everything. Always.

Older than me by exactly twelve months, Blake and I were inseparable from the moment I was born. We had the same friends, we loved and played the same sports, we kicked each other’s asses, and we always had each other’s backs. We were a united team against a set of parents who wanted each of us to be something we weren’t.

I should have told her about Ember. I just wasn’t ready to share the one thing that made me forget about my problems yet. It was nice having something all to myself. Especially before this stupid article eventually comes out and I lose any privacy I have.

I also wasn’t quite sure I was ready to tell my sister everything, and have her tell me what a goddamn creeper I am.

Jesus Christ, I am such a fucking creeper.

“So, you know that stupid magazine spread Uncle Butch set up? The human interest piece or whatever that will tug at America’s heartstrings or some shit, and bring in more donor money?”

Blake nods, pulling herself up onto my desk. She makes a swirling motion with her hand, indicating I should speed it up, since she knows what magazine article I’m talking about. I’ve done nothing but bitch about it for the last few months, ever since Uncle Butch called and told me he’d give me the start-up money I needed to expand, but only if I did this article to bring in more donors. This article is the reason I’ve been such a miserable prick lately. I’m stalling like a fucking pussy, because I don’t want my sister to make fun of me.

Jesus Christ.

“Well, the magazine sent over someone to interview me, and the interviews are being recorded so they can be transcribed,” I explain, bringing her up to speed while she pulls her cell phone out of her back pocket and starts tapping at it. “Once the interview is finished, I’ll send all the transcriptions back to the magazine so they can write it up. They sent some dimwit to interview me who just wants me to look at her tits the entire time she’s talking, and will probably make me look like a brainless, bench-pressing meathead.”