Page 21 of Sexting His Son's Ex
Keep my enemies close enough to smile at but kill if I need to—isn’t that the saying?
And there’s a part of me that wants this person to be Jovie.
Me: “I can’t stop thinking about you either, but I don’t know who you are.”
Her: “You don’t need to know. It only matters how I make you feel.”
Me: “It matters to me. You do know who I am, don’t you? I need to know all the people who want to be in my life.”
Her: “You can’t really think I’m out to get you?”
Me: “In my eyes, everyone is out to get me.”
Her: “That must be a lonely way to live.”
Me: “It has its moments, but that’s the job.”
Her: “Is a job really worth that?”
Me: “Sometimes. Especially in my line of work. Enough about me, how was your day?”
Her: “You’re changing the subject. We will circle back. I’m okay. I’m tired. I just got out of the shower.”
Me: “I did too.”
Her: “Did we shower at the same time? That’s almost like showering together, isn’t it? ; ) “
I can’t help the surge that travels through my body.
Me: “Prove it.”
Her: “I don’t know… What if you use my photos against me one day? A girl should never send nudes.
Me: “I’m not that kind of man. A boy does that. Your photos will be safe with me and if you want, I’ll delete them, or you don’t have to send them at all. There’s no pressure.”
Her: “How do I know you mean that?”
She’s right. She has no reason to trust me. Angling my phone down towards my body, I hook my thumb on the edge of thetowel. I tense my abs and take a picture. It’s a good enough image, nothing too special. The olive hue of my skin tone is apparent, and my abs look more defined in this lighting from the shadows finding the grooves.
I press send.
What the fuck are you doing, Santino? Sending fucking pictures like you’re a fucking teen in love.If anyone walked into this room right now to see me take a picture of myself half-naked, I’d never hear the end of it.
I’d kill them, so that would take care of the problem, but still, I don’t feel like dealing with a dead body this late at night.
Seconds turn to minutes going by without hearing from the mysterious woman.
There’s a voice in the back of my head warning me the person on the other end of this one of Bianchi’s men fucking with me. It’s stupid of me to continue this conversation without tracing the number to see who I’m talking to, but, for once, I’d like to exist without the looming distrust in people controlling my every move.
I stare at the screen, waiting for the bubbles to show on her end. The longer I wait, the more impatient I become. Tossing my phone to the side, I turn on the TV, and flip through the channels mindlessly.
Not that I’d ever tell, but I might have put on the episode of Law and Order. Every now and then, I might learn a thing or two, run it by my lawyer, and use any education to my advantage for any future dealings.
TV can be beneficial if you know how to use the information it gives you to the best of your ability.
Checking my phone again, I groan when there’s no message and toss it across my bed so hard, it bounces and drops onto the floor with a hard thud.
Fuck it. I’m leaving it there.I need to get my head on straight, and I can’t do that if I’m constantly checking for updates.
