Page 17 of Caught A Vibe

From: [email protected]

What are you talking about? Call me.

-Dash

I am just pissed off enough to call the number listed in his email signature. He answers on the first ring.

“Why do you think I’m a liar and a user?” he asks without preamble. His voice reverberates through my head and into my chest. My body has apparently imprinted on the sound, associating it with pleasure.

I can’t help the shiver, but I can absolutely remind my lady bits we are angry. “Because you said you were going to write an article for your magazine, but that was clearly just bullshit. Everyone else under the sun wrote one today, but you? Crickets. Not to mention you bailed on me this morning without a word. I don’t play with players.”

“Are you done?”

I refuse to answer. I said what I said.

“Check your email.”

I do, but only so I can sleep with a clear conscience tonight. This time it’s just a link. It takes me to an article written by Anonymous, describing the MiO and detailing the controversy. It catalogues everything that happened and offers historical background on past winners of the Innovator’s Award. It is a really well-researched article. I can pick entire passages straight from my conversation with Dash.

My stomach sinks as the dots connect. “Did you write this?”

“I did.”

“Then why is it anonymous and not in your magazine?” I ask, confused as hell and trying my best to make sense of it all through a fog of exhaustion and fading anger.

“My editor killed it. Said it was too political.”

“Women’s pleasure is always political.”

“Which is why ‘anonymous’ took matters into his own hands.”

I check the time stamp on the article. He had done this before I’d even gotten on the plane. He took my story and wrote about the unfair treatment I received in a clear, focused, yet sensitive article eviscerating T-Con for its hypocrisy. I’m floored. This is the article that sparked the media frenzy. God, I should be thanking him instead of cursing him out.

The words lodge in my throat. I hate being wrong. The silence stretches as I try to find the proper apology.

“You there?” he asks.

“I’m still here. Just trying to figure out how to get my foot out of my mouth.” I am already off-balance from this whirlwind of a day. This one-eighty on my opinion of him is making me dizzy. I lie back on the hotel bed and pray it passes.

“So is my editor. A modified version of the article will run tomorrow morning, but it won’t be an exclusive scoop. He missed a huge opportunity. His loss…”

He sounds nonchalant, but I can hear the careful distance in his voice. I’ve hurt him.Fuck.I didn’t think I could hurt him. It seems like I’m not the only one who caught some feels yesterday. You can’t hurt someone who doesn’t care.

“I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.” My voice softens as the last of the anger drains from my body, leaving me limp with exhaustion.

“It’s okay. You can make it up to me over dinner.”

“I wish I could.” I am surprised by how much I mean it.

“Schedule suddenly booked up with interviews?” he teased.

“You could say that.”

“Then why don’t you let me buy you breakfast tomorrow morning?” A subtle change in his voice sets off another shiver. I know exactly what we’d be doing before breakfast if we were together. Now that I don’t hate him, my mind is wide-open to a second-night stand.

“Unless you Venmo me, that’s going to be a little difficult.”

“Why?” His confusion is clear, and I am regretting my impulse to storm off to the airport.

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