Page 7 of Phantom Faceoff
Like why the hell are there bright red boxer briefs—ones who’s stink I am immediately assaulted by—on my mattress?
Ones that I know don’t belong to Julian and sure as hell aren’t mine.
I’ll admit I can be a little unhinged at times, and this—quite frankly—might be one of them:
Taking Julian’s phone, sifting through for a contact very uncreatively labeled “Z”, texting the number to my phone, taking a picture of the godforsaken underwear, and smashing out a not-so-very-thought-out message to a certain boundary crossing hockey player.
Satisfied with myself, I sleep like shit.
Chapter Three
Zander
Unknown
Shove your cum-soaked underwear up your ass.
Blanchard.
In all fairness, I thought I’d tossed them in my bag, but Julian rushed me out so suddenly, I must have dropped them.
My fingers hover over the keys, and I could one hundred percent be the bigger person here: write out a genuine apology and smooth things out.
However, that’s not very fun, and my day is wide open for entertainment.
Me
Would rather see a pic of it covering yours. Wearing another dude’s cum is hot.
I don’t expect an immediate reply because it is the ass crack of dawn, and I’m about to shred some ice, but I can’t help myself when the little notification icon pops up.
Buzzkill
You’re disgusting. Keep your nastiness away from Julian.
I cover my burgeoning smile with my hand, a sort of giddiness rising within me. The nickname is fitting. Good choice, me.
Me
Didn’t hear any complaints last night. Dude is pretty nasty himself.
Buzzkill
Do you call all of your playthings ‘dude’, asshat?
Me
Nope. Some are gals. Pals. Buddies.
Buzzkill
Fuck off.
Me
You texted me, remember?
That’s the end of that conversation apparently, and good thing, too, because Micky is giving me some serious murder eyes.
