Page 99 of Fabulous Filthy Friend

Was she?

I hadn’t really considered that. “It’s not like Rachel to try to get back at someone like that.”

Especially not me.

He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

A pinging sound comes from the computer, and Cade narrows his eyes on the screen. “Hey, what’s this little red icon in the upper right-hand corner?”

“Private messages.”

“It says you just got one and have a total of twenty-three.”

I snort and shake my head. “A lot less than I thought I would since I haven’t been on since last week.”

“Are they all from viewers?”

“Yeah, mostly propositions.”

He chuckles. “Now, this I have to see.”

I don’t give a shit if he reads the private messages. I barely glance at them most of the time, other than what’s necessary to open and delete them.

He clicks on the screen and then freezes. “Flynn, mate? I think you need to take a look at this one.”

I squeeze my eyes closed. “I can’t deal with the horny viewers right now.”

“You need to see this one.” He flips the computer around and points the screen toward me. “Really.”

“Who is it from?” Between the multiple glasses of booze and our positions, I can’t make anything out.

“Someone named INEEDSOMED.”

“Rachel?” I lurch from the couch, grab the computer from him, then settle it on my lap.

My hand shakes as I roll the cursor down the message. The timestamp says it was sent two minutes ago.

INEEDSOMED

I hate fighting with you.

That’s it. Her entire message is one sentence. But it comforts my heart and threatens to break me open all at the same time.

“What did she say, mate?”

“That she hates fighting.”

“It sounds like an invitation to fix whatever is wrong.” He pushes up from the chair. “I wish you the best of luck.”

“You’re leaving?”

He points in the direction of his house. “I have a wife I’m not fighting with that I would love to go spend some quality time with.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Good luck.”

The latch clicks into place behind him, and I return my focus to the message in front of me. Without even realizing it, I click on the reply box.

My cursor sits there, blinking at me. “What the hell do I say?”

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