Page 4 of The Emerson Effect
A tiny monkey beats out a syncopated rhythm of pain in my head as I blink my eyes open. My mouth is dry and, quite frankly, tastes rancid. And my bladder feels like it’s about to explode.
Welcome to the morning after, folks.
Groaning, I slide out of bed and stumble into the en suite bathroom. After using the toilet and washing my hands and face, I brush my teeth to eradicate the remnants of last night’s poor choices.
Pulling open the medicine cabinet, I swipe a bottle of aspirin from the shelf, tap two into my palm before popping them into my mouth, and then I shove my head into the sink for a drink straight from the faucet to help swallow them down.
I’m never drinking tequila again.
Of course, I’ve said that before.
Tequila is the devil.
I’ve said that, too.
Shuffling back to my bed, I collapse onto the mattress before grabbing my phone from the nightstand and yanking the charging cord free a little too forcefully. I swipe away my overnight notifications, freezing halfway through when I see one from BingBang that steals my breath.
A direct message fromThe Emerson Effect.
What in the actual…?
Why is he messaging me? We’ve never interacted this way on BingBang before, so why––
“Oh, no,” I whisper as a flash of memory skitters through my brain. “Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no.”
I tap the notification to open the app, and there it is. The innuendo-filled message I sent him last night in a tequila-driven rage.
“So glad the sight of me in a bikini made you wet, douchebag.”
Oh, God. Why did I do that? Fuck you, Tequila. Fuck you very much.
Holding my breath, I finally allow my eyes to dip to Emerson’s reply. Misery fills my body and seeps through my pores as I read it again. And again.
“I never knew you had such a dirty mind, Twila Greene. For shame, woman. For. Shame. What would your many adoring fans think of you now?”
I try to pick his words apart to find some hidden meaning. Is he being facetious? Teasing me? Or is he seriously threatening to share my ill-conceived DM with the world? I just don’t know. I don’t knowhim. At all.
Should I ask him not to share it? If I do that, it’ll look even worse if he decides to screenshot the conversation, won’t it? Like I’m trying to coerce him into not revealing my less-than-pleasant side?
Maybe I should just…apologize. Apologies are good, right? But,fuck, if this one wouldn’t make me choke. I don’twantto apologize. However wrong it was of me to send the message in the first place, Emerson deserved it for that insulting video.
But I have to saysomething. He’ll be able to tell I’ve read his message, and if I don’t say anything, I’ll look like even more of an asshole. Or worse, a coward.
I’m staring at the screen, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard when a new message pops up, startling me. I take a couple of deep breaths and read what I’m sure will be another threat.
“Relax, T. I was just kidding. I’m not going to be an asshole and screenshot our conversation or anything like that. Also, it was my idiot friend Stone’s idea to use that much water, and he did it without my knowledge or permission. Then he stole my phone and posted it, again, without permission. He has this insane idea that if he can get you to hate me as much as possible, it’ll give him better odds if you two ever meet irl. Did I mention he’s an idiot?”
Before I can fully process that message, another one comes through.
“On second thought, I won’t post any screenshots if you tell me one thing… What were you drinking last night when you sent that message?”
I huff at his assumption that I was drunk when I sent the DM. Of course, he’s right, but still. Maybe I was just fed up with his antics. He can’t prove alcohol was involved. My shoulders slump at the thought. If alcohol wasn’t involved, that makes me look even worse, doesn’t it? At least with the truth, I can blame that dirty devil, tequila.
I sigh and tap out a single word.
“Margaritas.”
After I send it, I bite my lip hard enough to hurt and send another message.
