Page 2 of Come Find Me Tonight

Ew.

“I’m only twenty-four. I’ll get there when I get there.”

“Two of your brothers were fathers your age, and I had three kids by twenty-four. Have you met any cute fellows yet? And none of those earring-wearing types.”

Because Daddy knocked you up when you were nineteen and married you because he had to.

She was a farm girl; he came from a long line of wealth in the South. Granny told me my mother was never right for my dad, but they were a conservative Christian family. When she got pregnant, they had no choice but to welcome her with open arms, and I know my mom forgets where she came from.

I roll my eyes then, wishing I could strangle her through the damn phone. “Nope, still single.”

“You really should come back to Georgia. I worry and pray for your safety in that big city,” she says. Just when I thought she’d let me live for once, she cracks the whip. I pump out my moisturizer into my hand and massage it into my face with a heavier hand than normal.

“I’m fine, okay? I have security and live in a good part of town.”

“Mm-hmm? Better security than your father and your big brothers?”

“Yes, because they’re drunk by four in the afternoon every day, Mama.” My normally suppressed Southern twang slips out thicker than I intend, and my cheeks flush and burn at the slip.

“I knew you didn’t lose your accent. Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you have famous-person things to do. Stop showing so much of your stomach in those clothing videos, by the way.”

“Bye, Mama.” My manicured nail clicks against the phone screen as I frantically press the red button to hang up, leaving a couple of oily fingerprints on the glass phone screen.

I turn to the walk-in closet attached to my primary bedroom, where I keep my day-to-day wardrobe and closet staples. I change into a matching sports bra and biker shorts made of a cool, buttery-soft material and post a quick mirror selfie, captioned: ‘Home workout time,’ to my story. Instead of working out, I end up lying on my plush couch with a big bag of air-fried potato chips while the newest drama plays on my TV. Licking the salt from my fingers is my favorite part.

But I dissociate as I scroll through stories of other influencers, check my DMs, and finally tap into DM requests. There’s a lot of thirst from the looks of it, per usual, a few nice story replies, but mostly trash. My finger hovers over the small arrow next to my username to switch to my burner account.

No, not yet—it’s too early.

I close out of social media and switch to my email app. There’s a couple of partnership opportunities sent over from my PR management firm, but nothing overly exciting or urgent. I glance at the TV where what is essentially soft-core porn plays. These shows are getting bolder in what they air now, but I wouldn’t mind being in her shoes. A tall, buff guy with a six-pack?

Yes, please!

But even this hunk on the screen would never be enough for me. He’s not him, and no man will ever compare, which is why I’m dreadfully single and orgasm deprived. I scroll for hours until the clock on my phone finally shifts to five p.m. A quiet gasp leaves my lips as I watch the tiny numbers in the corner of my screen change from four fifty-nine to five p.m.

Is there a new post?

I rush, open the app, and, sure enough, the algorithm pushes his video to the front of my reel queue.

Algo and I were best friends precisely three times a week at five Pacific Standard Time.

My mouth waters with anticipation as the newest video starts. My internet crush is very tall, from what I can tell, with deeply contoured abs and pecs, powerful arms, and wide shoulders I want to cling to for life, but he never shows his face, obscuring it with intentional lighting to stay anonymous. It’s ironic given that he shows everything else that he sensibly can without being flagged for explicit content. He sometimes speaks briefly in an intentionally hushed voice or allows a slight glimpse of his neck and jawline but never more. It’s torture not knowing what my internet crush looks like, but he has to be hot, right?

How can I be in love with someone whose face I’ve never seen?

Rook’s nipples are pierced. The lighting of the room always catches the metallic barbells. He has a large scar on his right abdomen but no visible tattoos. Most male thirst trap content creators are covered in them, and that’s hot in its own right, of course. Piercings are Rook’s signature. I’ve spent more evenings than I care to admit fantasizing about swirling my tongue over his pierced nipples to tease him, imagining what they might feel like brushed up against my delicate skin. My thighs press together, rubbing together to feel anything to no avail.

I can already hear the buzz of my vibrator as another night alone is on the docket.

But the scar on his side is an enigma. I’ve seen online where people post their wildest conspiracy theories about how he got it. Was he stabbed in a fight? Was he in a nasty car or motorcycle accident? Or surgery? No one knows, and for all I know, he could be a poster on those forums, trolling with outlandish theories. Rook’s a menace, and that would be a damned menacing thing to do.

In today’s new video, he’s in his usual uniform: dark-wash jeans and nothing else. A quiet rock melody plays softly in the background that amps up in beat as the video progresses. On my screen, he’s just pacing, pressing his fingers together, and flexing with his abs on display in a relatively empty room. It’s always something simple, but it has a complete chokehold on me and a few hundred thousand others, too. Just watching the veins in his arm bulge, pecs pop… I’d marry him on the spot if I ever met him. Occasionally, he’ll wear light gray sweatpants as a treat, the material clinging in all the right places, and unless he’s stuffing his sweatpants, his perfect body doesn’t stop short of his waistband. After the video replays three or four times, I glance at the caption: ‘What would you do if I sneaked in at two a.m.?’

Fucking. Fucking for a week straight. Conceiving your future children.

Even though I’ve been on the pill for a decade.

My thighs clench together again as I watch him pace endlessly over and over. He’s good at editing his videos in a way that they loop over seamlessly, and I’m left wondering how this twenty-second video is an hour long.