Page 44 of Hot Mess
Wasn’t even sure why I’d agreed to that shit in the first place.
So I could get the fuck out of her office and away from her Daniella-looking face? And her hot aunt, who kept undressing me with her eyes?
They’re identical twins, hon.
Shit, even she felt sorry for me.
The fact was, Daniella Vola—that was Danny’s real name, apparently—didn’t give a fuck about me. She’d blown me off, and she’d done it on purpose. No big fucking deal, other than the fact that I was left with a super lame tattoo as a permanent reminder, and now had reached a new humiliating low by stalking her sister.
Every time something reminded me of that tattoo between my legs, which I otherwise tried to forget—like one of my dickhead friends asking to see it when I was drunk—I got wondering about her again. Wondering if I’d fucked up. If I’d somehow missed the boat with the elusive Danny. You know, two ships passing in the night… Maybe I should’ve dropped anchor, locked that shit down?
Or at least fucked the shit out of her a few times, found out if she really was my dream fuck.
Not so much.
In reality, I’d wasted how many hours of my life since running into her sister buying roses in the rain, thinking about her, again? Thinking maybe she was my dream girl? Thinking maybe she was my destiny or some shit?
Pathetic.
There was no “Danny.”
There was some shit show in Alaska four years ago with a chick who ghosted me.
And there was her identical twin, who now wanted to redecorate my condo, because she’d sniffed out that I might have money—or fucking worse, because she felt sorry for me.
She sure as shit looked like she felt sorry for me in her office.
The poppy, too-bright, keyboard-driven opening to George Michael’s “Too Funky” started echoing through the bathroom. I had the pleasure of hearing it pretty much daily, whenever Summer called me.
I groaned.
I got out of the shower and toweled off, but by then I’d missed the call. I picked up my phone to call her back… but then opened my texting app instead.
I found the conversation I’d had with Danica last night. Wasn’t even sure why I’d let her have my number. Myrealnumber.
Or why, as soon as she’d texted me back, I’d programmed her name into my phone:Danica (twin #2).
But I did.
And… shit. The conversation was longer than I remembered it being.
When I’d blown off the appointment we’d made, she’d messaged me back to say she could come the next day instead—tomorrow—if that worked for me.
I didn’t reply.
At least, I thought I didn’t.
But like two hours later, at almost one in the morning, I did text her back.
And she texted me back.
Fuck me…
I scrolled through the conversation, which I had zero recollection of having.
Me:Checked my calendar. Totally full. Srry
Danica (twin #2):Another time could work? I’m really flexible.
