I frown, because at the moment I think the blocking possibility is very, very real.
But I also don't have a better idea.
Unfortunately, I also can't think of what I want to say that doesn't sound like I write porn scripts. I enlist Brody's help again, but he makes my porn-a-licious sext attempts sound like a Disney movie.
"Well, I can't help you if you don't press send," he says after I reject his fifth attempt. "If you won't text him then go back to door number one and accost the boy."
"Unfortunately, he's not in the habit of forwarding me his daily agenda. And while I could monitor Twitter and chase him all over town, I really don't think that's my best option."
It's only Wednesday morning, but already the King of Fuck is back in business, and Twitter is lighting up with Dallas sightings all over the city, with a different bimbette--or two--on his arm at each and every location.
"If I knew ahead of time that he was going to be somewhe--"
"What?" Brody asks.
"A party," I say as I congratulate myself on my own brilliance. "Turns out I do know at least one place he's going to be."
I take my phone from him and start typing out a new text.
You say you don't want to play the game. You say you want to move on. But I know better. Because I know you. I see you with all those women, and I see what no one else out in Twitterland does.
I see you watching me. Imagining me.
I'm right, aren't I? You slide your palm over a brunette's ass and you pretend it's mine.
You cup a blonde's tit and you remember your mouth on my nipple.
Do you slip your fingers in their panties on the dance floor? I bet you do. And I bet they're wet for you. But not as wet as me. And while you finger-fuck them to Lady Gaga, you remember the way it felt when your tongue made me come.
Don't try to deny it. I know it. And I'll see you soon and prove it.
I glance at Brody, whose mouth is hanging open just a little. "Shit, woman. Who are you and what have you done with my innocent little Jane?"
I roll my eyes, because I have never been innocent. "Just expanding my palette," I say as I think about how incredible it felt to masturbate on the beach with Dallas watching. "Trying new things."
I read my draft text again, and I'm just about to send it, when Brody's steady voice stops me.
"Wait."
I tilt my head, confused. "Not the right tone? I thought you liked it."
"No, that's not it. Shit, Jane," he adds, then runs his fingers through his hair. "I'm about to break some rules that matter to me, I want you to know that. But the truth is, you matter more."
He looks flustered, and I don't remember Brody ever looking flustered.
"What the hell, Brody?" I don't even know what the trouble is, and yet I'm worried. "What is it?"
"You know I take clients to The Cellar."
"Sure." I've never been, but I'm familiar with the downtown kink club. "So what?"
"What goes on there--who goes there is confidential. Telling someone who's not a member is grounds for expulsion. So I shouldn't be saying anything at all. But I love you, and I want to make sure you know what you're walking into. It was one thing to fuck him out of your system, but if I'm reading you right, now you're hoping to fuck him right into your life."
"I am," I say, a little bit numb as I process everything that Brody is saying--or, more accurately, not saying. "You're trying to tell me that Dallas is a member."
"He's a dom."
I raise my brows. "Professionally?"