Page 16 of Dash

Liz wrinkled her nose. “Right, so might as well broadcast that I’m damaged goods?”

Anemone typed. “Oh, please. Phoenixes are all about strength.”

Shaking her head, Liz pursed her lips.

“Oh, it’s taken and I hate when names have all those numbers after it.”

Good. “Speaking of which, can we talk about yours?”

“Hmm?”

“The dreadlocks?” Liz asked, picking up one of the thick purple rope-like strands of hair. The rough texture felt wrong in her hands and the opposite of Anemone’s normally smooth, silky black mane.

The bubbling giggle escaping the woman beside her had Liz dropping the hair immediately. “It’s a wig.”

“What?”

“It’s not my real hair.” Anemone snorted. “I felt like a change, and went for something wild but not permanent.”

The blush heated Liz’s cheeks with embarrassment. “Oh.” It was all she could think to say.

Pointing to the screen, “What about…” Her friend’s voice trailed off as she tapped her fingers on the coffee table.

“FireVine?” Liz suggested, glad to get off the topic of Anemone’s hair.

Anemone furrowed her brow. “What is a fire vine?” she asked. “Like a vine on fire?”

The familiar heat of embarrassment blossomed in her chest, spreading up through her cheeks. “Well, I mean, it’s a play on, you know. Rope. Rope is like a vine. And the fire, for my hair?” The more she explained it, the stupider it sounded. She hated it by the time she was done and waved a hand. “Never mind.”

“I agree,” Anemone nodded and pursed her lips as she tilted her head at the screen. “What name suits you?”

Liz fiddled with her hair, running her fingers through it. “I doubt it’s available, but,” she paused, knowing someone has to have it. “What about Gingersnap?”

“Someone totally has to have that,” Anemone agreed as she typed. “Shit.”

They hadn’t even been at it long, and Liz had already gotten bored. The taking pictures part had been fun. This part, picking a name, sucked. “How many numbers?” she groaned.

“None,” her friend laughed. “You got it.”

“What?” She did her best to lean forward at the screen. No way. There was no way no one had used that name yet. Every redhead ever was called Ginger. “How the hell did no one snag Gingersnap yet?”

Anemone continued to laugh. “I don’t know. It looks like a bunch of people did it with underscores. Maybe everyone thought the same thing you did—that someone already had it so no one tried?”

“Heh.” Falling back into the most comfortable of positions she could manage while wearing a a corset and sitting on the floor, she stared at the screen. Perhaps this was a sign. She was meant to be Gingersnap. No one else had the name. What were the odds?

Heterosexual. Single. Submissive. The standard information. Profile picture selected, one that highlighted her best features—her eyes, hair color, and corset. So, it was tasteful, but still hinted toward not so tasteful.

The bio. Oh, how Liz hated the “Tell us a little bit about yourself,” section of every profile on the internet. There wasn’t much to tell. There was so much pressure to be honest, but not too honest—while being funny, but not corny. Don’t forget to be flirty, but not desperate. How many fine lines could she walk in a few sentences?

That was the other thing. She didn’t want an introduction that was too lengthy. Don’t forget to be concise. Her head spun, and she hadn’t even typed a word. Then again, she hadn’t typed a damn thing. Her friend had done all the typing. So, why the hell was she worrying about anything?

Because, whatever Anemone wrote, Liz would have to live up to it. If she made her out to be this quirky hipster girl—Liz would have to live up to that expectation. What if she made her too submissive? Liz wasn’t a twenty-four-seven total power exchange person—would Anemone make her sound like one? Shit! Would Anemone make her sound too dominant? Just because her friend read a lot of submissive men’s profiles didn’t mean she knew how to write a submissive woman’s profile.

“I think I should write my profile,” Liz piped up.

Anemone cocked her head. “Don’t trust me?”

“No.” Oh, that came out far too eager. Her cheeks heated. “No,” she tried to sound calmer. “It’s not that.” Okay, it was that. “I just, it feels kind of personal, you know. If it’s supposed to be about me, shouldn’t it be my words?”

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