Just My Type(46)

Don’t contact me again. I’m too busy guarding the gates of hell.

Ron “I Will Fuck You Up” Jeremy

To: Ember Hastings

From: Baker Matthews

Subject: Re: Go Away

That was just cruel. But seriously, send me a picture of him in the socks.

Also, why in the hell are we still emailing each other at this point? Texting would be much easier.

Baker “Only a Stage-Two Clinger, Thank You Very Much” Matthews To: Baker Matthews

From: Ember Hastings

Subject: Re: Go Away

Are you seriously asking me to come to your place for our next interview? And I use the term “interview” loosely, obviously. Alone in your loft at night, dessert, games… nice try. This isn’t a date. No funny business. I’d like to spend a little more time discussing your Uncle Butch.

Oh, and Lincoln told me to tell you that he spent all weekend teaching Ron Jeremy his name, so he’ll come when you call him. Do you want to know how my son taught that fucking prickly rat to come when he calls him? By standing in the front yard, screaming at the top of his lungs, “COME, RON JEREMY! COME!” So, that’s how the rest of my weekend went. Thanks for asking.

We are still emailing each other, because we are documenting our business arrangement via email, like professionals.

Ember “I’ve Become One of THOSE Neighbors” Hastings To: Ember Hastings

From: Baker Matthews

Subject: Re: Go Away

My, my, Ember Hastings, aren’t we presumptuous? I never said we’d be alone in my loft. Look at you being all adorable and jumping to conclusions. Or could it be, projecting your fantasies? I’m extremely interested in what type of games you assumed we’d be playing during this hanky-panky time. Because I just finished hanging a Pin the Tail on the Donkey game on my wall, and I don’t know; I do like a great ass, but this doesn’t exactly do it for me. But hey, you do you, boo.

Wednesday at my loft at five, there will be a 5th birthday celebration for my niece. I’m sorry if that destroys all of your extremely dirty thoughts about finally getting me alone so you can have your way with me. The good news is, you can bring Lincoln if you’d like. Blake and Rachel have a few friends with kids his age, so he won’t be bored. And Blake can help me out with Uncle Butch stories.

Really? These emails are for documenting our business arrangement? Sooo you’re okay with everyone at Just My Type reading them? Well, alrighty then. I’d like to state for the record that I have a very large and very impressive penis. Call me.

Baker “You Know You Love It When Ron Jeremy Comes” Matthews To: Baker Matthews

From: Ember Hastings

Subject: Re: Go Away

Texting it is then.





CHAPTER 19





Ember

That Motherfucker


“You’re dating.”

“For fuck’s sake, Brooklyn, give it a rest. We are not dating,” I remind her for the tenth time in five minutes, my phone perched on the corner of the sink in my bathroom as I finish my makeup.

“Are you high? You’re dating. You’re going to his place tonight.”

“For work, to talk about his uncle,” I explain, adding a few more swipes of mascara. “And since it’s a birthday party and his sister will be there, she can fill in whatever Baker might leave out. It’s a very sound business decision, Brooklyn. I can speak to both of them at one time, instead of wasting a whole other interview talking to Blake alone. It’s a time management thing; you wouldn’t understand.”

I sound like I have a stick shoved so far up my ass that I’m choking on it.

“Jesus Christ, pull that stick out of your ass already and hump that man!” My conscience, I mean, my best friend shouts through the phone. “You are being fucking ridiculous with this ‘no touching the boss until the work is done’ horse shit. No sex is making you cranky and uptight, and pretending like you haven’t wanted to screw that man since the minute you heard his voice is getting old.”

I scoff, shoving the tube of mascara aggressively into my makeup bag, so Brooklyn can see how ridiculous I think she’s being. But then I remember I just have her on speaker, not on FaceTime, and really underestimate how aggressive I can be with mascara when I’m annoyed. My makeup bag goes flying off the sink, everything inside of it clattering against the wall and the shower door before hitting the ground, with a few poor, doomed eyeshadow pallets, dying swiftly when they plop into the toilet bowl.

“Was that the sound of your vagina finally exploding from nonuse?” Brooklyn laughs when all the ruckus from my makeup flying around the room dies down. “Anyway, you’re dating. For at least a month now.”

“We’re not dating.” I sigh as I bend down to pick up everything from the floor. “We pinky swore. We’ve had a few instances of slightly crossing the line, but we nipped it in the bud, and everything else has been purely work-related.”

I finish grabbing everything from the floor, shoving it into my makeup bag as I stand back up.

“Let me break this down for you, dipshit,” Brooklyn mutters. “You flirt with each other, you’ve spent weeks getting to know a shit-ton about each other, you’ve met his family, one or more of his family members have your cell phone number and they use it, you’ve shared a meal together, you introduced him to your son, he helped you pick out a family pet, you guys have inside jokes, you talk by email or text every day, he either sends a car to pick you up or he picks you up himself, and you’ve been invited to a family birthday celebration tonight.”