Just My Type(47)

My head started spinning as soon as she began rambling off that list, until I had to lower the toilet lid and my body slowly slunk down to sit on it.

“You. Are. Dating,” Brooklyn stresses.

After I’ve taken a few deep breaths and I can think clearly again, I shake my head, even though Brooklyn can’t see me denying this rubbish.

“This is… this is ridiculous.” I scoff. “I mean, we’re just hanging out while we work. And everything you listed has something or other to do with this job. We agreed to keep everything professional until the job is done. I mean, it sounds bad when you say it all out loud like that, but… no. No! We’re not dating.”

Right? RIGHT? I am not this much of an idiot. You can’t be dating someone for weeks, and you’ve never even kissed. Preposterous!

“Or, this job is just Baker’s excuse so you’ll hang out with him. Liiike, dating.” Brooklyn snorts.

“Oh my God, will you stop?” I shout as my heart starts to race and my palms start to sweat. “For the last time, we are not dating. And besides, I think I’d know if we were dating. That’s usually a discussion that happens wherein both parties agree to date. There have been no dating discussions. And even though it’s been a while, I’m pretty sure I remember orgasms going hand-in-hand with dating. No orgasms, equals not dating!”

I’m screeching. Good God, I’m screeching! Because I want orgasms. Baker orgasms. Wait, no, not just that. Other important, really vital reasons that are blah, blah, blah… Baker orgasms.

I quickly bend forward to put my head between my knees before I pass out, completely forgetting I have the tiniest bathroom known to man. My forehead smacks against the sharp edge of the sink’s laminate countertop as I go, my brain clearly not understanding the concept of how I was in the process of trying not to pass out. My mouth opens in a silent scream of pain, and I quickly clamp it closed and grit my teeth before it escapes and I have to tell Brooklyn what a dumbass I am.

“Yeah, you’re dating.” She laughs, as I bring my hand up to my forehead and gently press my palm against the spot that feels like someone pounded with a hammer. “You are definitely dating, just without the naked, orgasmy, good parts. He saw right through your ‘keeping things professional’ bullshit, fucking started dating you without you even realizing it, while still respecting your ‘keeping things professional’ bullshit boundaries, until you got a clue,” Brooklyn muses. “Jesus Christ, marry this guy and have all of his babies.”

I don’t even know if the stars that are flashing behind my eyes right now are because my brain is exploding from me “finally getting a clue” as Brooklyn so nicely put it, or because my brain is actually exploding.

Slowly pulling my hand away from my throbbing head, I see a small splotch of blood. I literally see red as my anger starts to grow.

“Be honest here, Ember,” Brooklyn speaks, suddenly completely serious. “How long should this interview for the article really have taken? It’s a magazine article, not an entire biography going into a book. If Baker sat there, just spilling everything at once, how long? An hour, maybe two if we’re being generous, right? Instead, he has spread this out over weeks, and weeks, getting you to spill your deep, dark secrets to get to know you, and mother. Fucking. Dating you. Goddamn genius, I tell you.”

“That motherfucker,” I seethe, wincing in pain when gritting my teeth just makes my head pound even more.

“Go get ’em, tiger!” Brooklyn cheers. “For the love of all that is holy, stop denying yourself the naked, orgasmy, good parts. But you know, kick him in the balls a little first. But not too hard. You want those babies to still be able to function.”

Deciding to stick with anger over Baker’s trickery, instead of getting all girly and mushy thinking about naked orgasms, I stomp my feet against the ground and take a stand.

You know, figuratively. I’m pretty sure I’ll vomit if I stand too quickly. I don’t so much take a stand, as I move with the speed of a sloth that takes three hours to crawl one foot.

When I’m finally upright and standing in front of the sink, facing the mirror, I cringe when I see my reflection. There’s only a tiny red cut on my forehead right by my hairline that’s not even bleeding anymore, but under that is a lump the size of a grape I’m pretty sure will be turning black and blue any minute now.

“That. Mother. Fucker,” I mutter again.

I don’t know why it’s Baker’s fault I might have given myself a slight concussion, but it is. It’s all his stupid, secretly-dating-me fault.

I smack my finger against the End Call button on my phone in the middle of Brooklyn telling me to call her as soon as I have an orgasm status report on a scale of one to “I Can’t Remember My Own Name.”

Knowing the Uber Baker sent for Lincoln and me will be here any minute—Goddammit, that does not mean we’re dating, come on!—I make quick work of cleaning up the cut on my head as gingerly as possible, and putting a Band-Aid over it to hopefully cover up all the damage.

The fact that the only Band-Aids I have in the house at the moment are bright yellow-and-green ones with Tinkerbell on them, and the fact that I grabbed them at the check-out of the store the other day because they made me smile and think of Baker and the way he calls me Tink, means absolutely nothing. If anything, this bright beacon of happiness on my forehead just makes it easier to maintain my fury with Baker.