Page 12 of Deviant
Unknown Number:
Three months and you still can’t close the deal. That’s gotta be some kind of record. Or maybe you’re just that fucking pathetic.
Then another.
Unknown Number:
She’s practically begging for it and you’re out here acting like someone’s forcing you to eat pussy. What’s the matter, Thornwood? Can’t get it up?
And another.
Unknown Number:
Or maybe you just don’t want to disappoint her with thirty seconds of wonder.
My thumb hovers over the number. I should delete these. Block the number. Pretend this never happened.
Instead, I hitCall.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
Then, voicemail—a generic automated voice.
Fuck you.
I hang up and stare at the phone, my heart pounding.
Another text comes through immediately.
Unknown Number:
Don’t bother calling. I’m not gonna hold your hand through this. But I will hold your dick if you’d like
I stare at the screen. White-hot fury floods through me, causing me to throw my phone. It hits the passenger door before bouncing off and landing on the floorboard. My chest heaves. Some fucking coward is just sitting behind a phone screen instead of saying that shit to my face.
I slam the truck into drive and peel out of Molly’s driveway, tires squealing on the pavement. The drive back to the ranch is a blur, as my mind keeps circling back to those texts.
The party is still going on, but I don’t give a fuck. I cut the engine, grab my phone from the floor and shove it into my pocket, and head inside the house and into my room.
Fuck this summer already.
RHETT
Ididn’t sleep for shit.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those texts.
Does your dick even work or are you just that much of a pussy?
By 5:30 a.m., I gave up trying and headed outside. The air is already thick with humidity—that suffocating Arkansas summer heat that makes all of your clothes stick to you before the sun’s even up. Cicadas are already screaming from the trees, and the sky is starting to lighten from black to a purple hue.
Dad finds me in the barn, fiddling with a bridle that doesn’t need fixing.
“You’re up early,” he says, carrying two cups of coffee. He hands me one, and I take it, even though my stomach’s already churning.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Nervous about today?”
