Page 1 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
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TESSA
The bass of Doja Cat’s Woman thumps against the walls of my bedroom, shaking the perfume bottles on my dresser. It’s pulsing through the floorboards, probably annoying Mrs. Gable downstairs, but I don’t give a fuck.
Tonight isn’t just any Friday. Tonight is a funeral for my youth and a baptism for my future, all rolled into one.
I shimmy my hips, singing into the handle of my hairbrush as I survey the absolute devastation on my bed. It looks like a tornado hit a fashion boutique here. Skirts, crop tops, and discarded bras are strewn everywhere—casualties of my indecision.
“Okay, Tessa. Focus,” I tell my reflection in the mirror. “Last night of freedom. Make it count.”
In a little over two days, everything changes. No more sleeping until ten. No more freelance consulting in my sweatpants while eating cereal for dinner. On Monday morning, I become Tessa Hartley, Lead Brand Strategist of Mosaic.
My stomach flutters just thinking about it. Mosaic. The name alone sounds expensive. It’s the hottest tech startup in Austin, the kind of place whispered about in marketing circles as the “disruptor” of the year.
I still can’t believe I got it, and I have Harper to thank for the headache.
She was the one who found the listing two months ago on some obscure tech forum. She’d cornered me, eyes wide with that chaotic energy she’s famous for, and sent me the link with a cryptic note: Apply. Don’t ask questions. Just trust me.
I almost didn’t click it because the posting was vague, but Harper insisted.
“This company needs a brain like yours,” she’d said. “The job description is insane, but the pay is legitimate. I actually know the headhunter handling the search, so I can get your portfolio on the top of the pile. But you have to win the interview yourself.”
When I asked how she knew the recruiter for a ghost company, she just waved a hand and said she ‘knows people.’
“Tessa, stop underselling yourself,” she’d insisted. “You are exactly what they are describing.”
She was right. But she wasn’t kidding about the intensity.
The hiring process was like joining the CIA. Two months of interviews with a third-party recruiter who handled everything like a classified operation.
“The founders use a strict blind selection process,” the recruiter had explained during the onboarding call. “We scrub all personal identifiers—names, photos, universities—from theportfolios. They review the strategy, the voice, and the results. Nothing else.”
It was extreme, but it worked. I got the job.
But then came the airtight NDA. The contract was terrifyingly specific: absolute silence until launch. The founders delegated most of the hiring process to keep their identities offline. I don’t even get a name until Monday.
The tech blogs call them the ‘Phantom Trio’—three anonymous urban legends who refuse to put their names on the website. But the salary they offered me had enough zeros to make my remaining student loans weep with relief, so I don’t care if they’re three raccoons in a trench coat.
I have to be professional on Monday. I have to be the adult in the room. But tonight? Tonight, I just want chaos.
I turn back to the bed, looking down at the two finalists lying on the duvet.
On the left is a black bodycon. It’s a solid choice. It hugs my waist, cutting low enough to be interesting but high enough to be decent. It’s safe. It screams: I have a 401k, I drink vodka sodas, and I make responsible life choices. It’s the kind of dress that gets you bought a drink, but maybe not taken home.
On the right is a red slip.
I bite my lip, running a finger over the fluid silk. Calling it a ‘dress’ is generous. It’s a scrap of crimson silk that looks less like evening wear and more like something a mistress wears to answer the door at midnight. It has spaghetti straps thin enough to snap with a tug, a cowl neck that dips recklessly low, and a slit that rides high up my thigh.
Harper bought it for me last week as a pre-parting gift. “For when you want to break hearts,” she’d said.
It’s scandalous. It’s the kind of dress that doesn’t just ask for attention; it forces a confession.
“Safe or dangerous?” I whisper to the empty room.
My phone flashes on the nightstand. A text from Harper asking if I’m on my way yet.
I ignore it. I need to move. Harper is the reason for the party, but she’s also the reason I need tonight to be epic. She’s leaving for Europe next week. My best friend, my partner in crime, will be gone.
