Page 22 of Tinder B@ng

Eleven

It’s late when I hear my phone buzz next to my bed. I open one eye, and glare at the damn thing. Admittedly, it’s been far more quiet since I deleted Tinder, but now, whenever I do get a text, I have something akin to post-traumatic stress disorder. I practically jump out of my skin when the sound goes off, or look at my phone as if I can make it blow up just by staring at it. It’s like 2 a.m. If someone is trying to get a hold of me, it’d be Oakley, in which case it’s some kind of emergency. I reach for my phone with a huff, and frown when I don’t recognize the number.

At first, I’m frozen. I think back to the encounter we had in the studio, and my entire body not only tingles, but is overtaken by a flush of embarrassment. Even days later I feel the humiliation of the day he came in with his kids, and finding out I’d never really spoken to him, but to said kids. It took me a bit to get over it, too. And now he’s texting me? Wait —

I text back. I don’t recall ever giving him my number, or any other person I spoke to on the app for that matter. If I wanted to communicate with them outside the app, I used Telegram. I’ve watched enough crime television shows to know that your number can be reverse searched, like images can, and you can actually be found that way. Though with Kalon, it’s a little different — a sick joke, but still different. He and his children are clients of mine and Oakley’s, and I ended up seeing the guy long before I was ready or had even decided I wanted to. That choice was taken out of my hands, and then I was slapped with a wet fish when Oakley insinuated I’d been speaking to his kids, and not him. God. I’m such an idiot. While my inner diatribe goes on and on, I’m actually staring at the dots hopping up and down on the screen. Fuck knows why I replied, but I did. I’m a sucker for self-inflicted torture apparently.

Okay, cool. He’s apologizing. Fine. I go to put my phone back on my bedside table when it chimes again.

Okay, so Oakley was right. I had been talking to his kids. At least, that’s how it started. So was it all a game then? If so, he wins. Hands down. The thought makes my stomach twist, and I type back in anger.

There, that should send the message loud and clear. Men? I’m done with them. I dump my phone back on my bedside table, and roll over, intent on sleeping. You know, the thing we should actually be doing at this time of the morning. I have a full schedule tomorrow, with Saturdays being one of our busiest days of the week, so I need to sleep. Just when I think he’s not going to reply, my phone chimes again. And it’s not Oakley. Or Holland.

Fuck.

Huh. He’s picked up a few things from his kids. And again with the stamp thing. As much as I want to give him a hard time about his little hobby, he does sound salty about it. And at least he’s using AF in the right context. I have to think about it, so I make Kalon wait a few minutes before responding.

The dots jump. And jump. And the thought that he’s typing, and retyping, his message makes me smile and bite my lip because this man is all kinds of ridiculous. Not to mean he’s really far from my usual type. Eventually, his reply pops up on my screen.

Why his textual punctuation does it for me, I don’t know, but it does. There’s something to be said for people — read: men — who take the time to spell everything out properly, as opposed to taking the short way out.

I fall asleep with the goofiest smile on my face, and when I wake up, I have a pep in my step. Oakley comments on it when I meet her outside my apartment. Every Saturday morning, we forgo the gym and take the thirty-five minute walk to work instead.

“You’re practically glowing,” she says, giving me the side-eye. “Did you have sex last night?”

“No,” I give her a look. “I told you I’m done with Tinder, and dating, and men. In that order.”

“Something tells me you’re lying.”

I groan. My best friend is part bloodhound, I swear. “If there was any kind of hanky panky, you’d know about it. I told you about the last fuck up that didn’t involve much fucking, remember?” As loath as I am to admit, I told Oakley all about Jason, and the penis that just wasn’t.

“Then why are you smiling like someone rode the D train last night?”

I’m smiling? I touch my face and realize that, yes, my smile is wider than usual. And if Kalon can make me smile like this from a text alone, what’s going to happen when I see him again? Which reminds me.

“I think I’m having coffee with Kalon,” I tell Oakley. We pick up our pace.

“Kalon as in Kalon Ward? Your client?” She has every right to look surprised.

“It’s a bit of a long story, but he texted me last night.” I slip my phone out of my tote and hand it over. Having her read the text exchange is far easier than telling her about it. This way, I can get her unfiltered response. She slides her thumb over the screen, and shakes her head when she hands my phone back. Her smile rivals mine.

“Really?” she asks. “He’s, like, fifteen years older than you and he has three kids.” She sounds as surprised as I feel by all this.

“I know, right? He’s nowhere near my usual type, but I think that’s the appeal, isn’t it? Where has going for my actual type gotten me?”

Oakley shrugs. “Valid point, but on another note, what could you have in common with someone like that? I mean, he’s filthy rich, retired, has three grown kids who, I think, have been trying to set him up with someone, and packs a pretty large package. And he collects stamps for fun. I just can’t see the appeal.”

Well, thank God for that, because imagine if she did find him appealing. I, on the other hand, can’t name what draws me to him, I just know there’s something that does, and I’m curious enough to find out what.

“Would it be a terrible idea if I explored it?” I ask. We’re almost at the studio, and once we get there, we won’t be able to chat between clients. I want to hear what Oakley thinks before then.

Oakley mulls it over, which makes me a little nervous. I know she’ll never judge me, but sometimes, her honesty scares me. “I can’t see why not, if you can see past everything else. If his age doesn’t bother you, and especially if him having kids doesn’t bother you.” She grins. “Between you and me, if I wasn’t with Bash, and deliriously in love, and someone like Kalon hit on me, I’m not sure I’d turn him down. You,” she points, “have the added bonus of knowing he has a big dick.”

“Is that the barometer these days?” I ask on a serious note. “The size of a man’s dick?”

“Well,” Oakley exhales, “There does seem to be a correlation between the size of his dong, and his confidence, the same way there’s a correlation between our confidence, and say, the size of our boobs. These days, it’s all relative.”

I blow a raspberry. “I think I’m going to take a break from the dating thing. It’s more stress than it’s worth, and having one night stands isn’t nearly as fun as it was when we were in our early twenties.”