Page 8 of The Emerson Effect
“This stays here, remember? I knew she’d be freaking out, especially when I messaged her back to ask what all her adoring fans would think of her dirty, dirty mind.”
“What did she say to that?” Ritchie asks.
“Nothing. I took pity on her before she could form a response and told her I was just kidding. Then I told her it was all this guy,” I say, pausing to point a finger at Stone, “and that I wouldn’t be cruel and screenshot her message or anything like that. In fact, I promised not to tell anyone if she’d admit what she’d been drinking last night when she sent that message.”
All three of them dart their eyes toward the blender and simultaneously say, “Margaritas.”
“Yep.”
“So you’re making a video to fuck with her?” Mason asks.
“Sort of,” I say slowly, then bite my lip. “It’s more like an inside joke kind of thing.”
“I’ll help,” Stone says, holding out his hand for my phone.
“I think I got enough of your help yesterday,” I deadpan, then hand over my phone anyway.
“Best behavior. Scout’s honor,” he says, tapping in the security code to open my phone.
Yeah, the four of us don’t really have secrets, which is why I felt so bad lying to him about Twila earlier. And why I fessed up to all of them just now. I trust them, and I know they won’t do anything to betray that trust.
I turn on the blender again to mix the melting concoction once more, then I fill the glass with the green, slushy drink. I wish I had some flowers, or something, but fresh flowers aren’t exactly something four dudes keep around the house.
The frozen margarita and my most dashing smile will have to do. We decide to set up in the living room. Stone holds the phone out, slightly lower than my eye line so it’s like I’m looking down at a woman a who’s a bit shorter than me. Stone points at me as he starts filming, and the song “Secret Crush” by Abraham Harlowe starts playing. My lips curve into a seductive smile as I dip my chin and tilt my head slightly, then I hold up the margarita glass as if toasting someone.
I think of Twila as I stare intently into the phone’s camera lens, then my tongue darts out to wet my lips before I scrape my teeth over the bottom one. Then I wink for good measure, and Stone stops the recording.
“Shit, I overdid it, didn’t I?” I ask, my shoulders dropping as Stone re-watches what he just filmed.
“No, dude,” he says, then hands the phone to Mason so he and Ritchie can watch it before he meets my gaze. “It was fucking perfect. No reshoot necessary.”
“Damn, I think I’m getting hard,” Ritchie jokes, then slaps a hand over his eyes to block out the sight of me.
“It’s good, man,” Mason says seriously, then hands the phone to me so I can watch it.
I nod slowly, agreeing with them, then add a caption that simply says “For her” without any hashtags before tapping thepost icon. I know it won’t do well. It’s not my niche, and past experience proves that skirting away from my usual stuff ends up with very few views and an eventual relegation to the “private” folder on the app.
But this isn’t for everyone. It’s for one person, and one person only.
Twila Greene.
FIVE
Twila
I got so caught up in filming BingBangs this morning, I lost track of time. It’s after two now, and my stomach growls in protest because I skipped lunch. Setting my phone on the kitchen table, I decide to put off editing the videos until after I’ve had something to eat.
Opening the fridge, I peruse my options. There’s leftover salsa and guac from last night, but the mere thought of it makes me taste tequila in the back of my throat, so I grab the lettuce, some cherry tomatoes, and some pre-packaged grilled chicken to make myself a salad. Sure, I’ll douse it in ranch dressing, but it’s still healthier than chips and dip, right?
Once I have my salad assembled, I pour myself a glass of sweet tea. I know it’s full of sugar, but Joey’s boyfriend Dallas got her hooked on it, and she, in turn, got me just as hooked. I only fill the glass halfway as some sort of compromise with my guilty conscience.
Sitting at the table, I take a bite of my salad before grabbing my phone to scroll through BingBang while I eat. Notifications were flowing in while I was filming earlier, but I ignored them, attempting to stay on task. My eyebrows lift when I see the number of notifications telling me I was tagged in a comment. It’s far higher than usual, and I click on the top one to see what’s going on.
My fork slips through my fingers and clatters into my salad bowl as I stare wide-eyed at the screen. It’s Emerson. He’s wearing a tuxedo. His hair is styled like I’ve never seen it. And he’s smoldering. He’s biting his lip. Winking.
Holy shit. This is a thirst trap.
And ohmygod, is that a margarita in his hand?
