Sundays were the start of my weekend, but when I had an assignment, days off weren’t a given. I tried to get a good night’s sleep, but living downtown in a city that didn’t shut up wasn’t conducive to that. By the time all the youngsters stopped partying and provided me with silence, it was almost daylight.
Even with my blackout curtains, being on the top floor of a fifteen-story building, the sun seeped into my room with its early morning glow, shining a relentless glare in my eyes that was worse than any alarm clock.
“All right, you dick, I’m awake.” I threw the pillow at my window, which only gave the asshole god, Helios, more room to ruin my life.
After about a four-hour catnap, I dragged myself out of bed and grabbed my phone to check my socials. While scrolling through my feed, I started a double shot of espresso. Once my coffee was brewed to perfection, I poured a splash of oat milk and sank onto the plush leather couch. Even though it was expensive, it wasn’t the most comfortable, but I had limited choices to sit since my place was so small. The coziest spot in my apartment was my bed, but I couldn’t crawl back in there, or I wouldn’t get up. And since I had that stupid interview in a few hours, staying in wasn’t an option.
Instead, I decided to prep for it, but how? I was utterly clueless about what to do. Who would want me as a wingwoman? I wouldn’t. I had a decent radio personality, but that didn’t carry over in person. Sometimes, I was awkward and lacked patience, and I didn’t give enough fucks to make small talk. I was an anti-wingwoman. I was probably anti-people, which was worse.
What was Matrix thinking by telling Shorty I was the right person for this job? This would be a disaster in the making, but that was probably why the station forced me to do it—fuckery was ratings gold.
I let out a deep exhale before finishing my coffee. When I was done, I brushed my teeth, then jumped into the shower. Maybe I could wash off this permascowl. I hoped the heat would relieve my tension, but I knew the only thing that would improve my mood was getting out of this week’s excursion.
While turning to wash my face, my gaze shifted toward the showerhead, and the refreshing droplets of water cascaded down, awakening my senses, and I realized there was another way to salvage this day. My stall wasn’t big, so I leaned against the wall and adjusted the spray to caress my nipples. It was enough to get me aroused, and then I thought about the one thing that always pushed me over the edge—Davia.
It was wrong to still think about her, but I couldn’t help myself. She was petite, and I could lift her up and take control, which was a turn-on in itself. I had her pinned against the wall while she used my shoulders and face as a chair. I was tongue-deep inside of her, and it was almost like I could still taste her tangy sweetness in my mouth.
As the need in my body built up—she yanked my hair while digging her nails into my back—and I moved the nozzle closer to my pussy. I closed my eyes and heard my name echoing in my mind from Davia’s lips. When her thick thighs squeezed firmly around my head, I pulled her hips closer to my face and went deeper inside. Her wetness intensified as I skillfully pleasured her like a guitarist strumming their instrument.
Her moans grew louder, and her body trembled in my arms. I was feeling weak in the knees, but I didn’t let up until her breathing slowed. As she reached the peak of pleasure, I pinched my nipple hard and pointed the water directly at my clit, coming down the mountain with her.
When the orgasm finally ended and my pussy stopped quivering, I finished washing off. I let out a long exhale, and I was feeling slightly better. I still didn’t want to meet Shorty, but at least I had a smile on my face, which was the best I could hope for.
After getting out, I ran a brush through my hair, leaving it to air dry. My natural wave gave it body and allowed me to be low-maintenance. I hastily applied eyeliner and rummaged through my wardrobe before settling on a casual black tank top and skinny jeans.
I wouldn’t be on camera today, so I didn’t need to put in much effort—not that I ever did anymore. Being withdrawn had lowered my ability to care about what I looked like or what people thought—silver linings. Once I slid on my Vans, I was out the door.
My condo was only four blocks from Main Street, and since it was a nice day, I walked to Java Jive. It wasn’t my go-to coffee place because it was full of college-aged people, and it made me feel like Matthew McConaughey in Dazed and Confused.
As I headed down the sidewalk, I texted Shorty so I would know how to identify her when I arrived.
Me: Hey, this is Caz. I wanted to check to see if we were still on. Also, what are you wearing?
I hit send before re-reading it, then realized how pervy that sounded. I didn’t know if I should try to fix it, but a text came back before I could decide.
Shorty: What are you wearing?
She gave me a winky face, which seemed odd given the circumstances, but maybe she was trying to lighten the mood.
Was I supposed to respond? When I saw the dots wiggle around, I felt relief because I didn’t want this to turn into a fireable offense.
Shorty: I’m wearing gray, as usual. I’m so boring. This is why I need your help. No one will ever notice me because I’m like a fly on the wall.
I couldn’t read her personality. It seemed flirty at first, but now it was self-deprecating. I would have to feel her energy when I got there to know what I was dealing with.
I arrived at Java Jive five minutes before I was supposed to meet her, and I scanned the place through the window before going in. It was more crowded than expected, given how late it seemed the entire Gen Z population stayed out last night. I didn’t spot anyone wearing gray, but I couldn’t see the back. So, I bit the bullet and went in, but no one acknowledged me, not even the barista.
Was I so out of place in here that I was invisible? Maybe they could only see vibrant, youthful energy, and my “life fucked me over, and this is all that I have to give” aura was shunned.
“Excuse me, miss,” I called to the girl behind the register.
She stared blankly for a minute. “Yes?” she finally responded verbally.
“Umm, I’m looking for someone. Do you think you could help me?”
“Are you a cop?” She studied me with a disgruntled expression.
“No. I’m supposed to be meeting someone, but I don’t know what she looks like.”
“A blind date?” She quirked a brow, but I was done with the twenty questions.
“Sure. Can you make an announcement for Shorty and see if anyone comes up?”
“Shorty?” She appeared to be waiting for more information, but that was all I had.
I knew she had a real name, but I had forgotten it, and the paper was at my place.
“In a gray shirt.” I filled in the missing piece I knew.
“I’m not doing that. Do you want something to drink?” She shot me down way quicker than it took for me to get to the question.
This was why I didn’t talk to people—they just pissed me off.
I sighed. “Yeah, I’ll have a Vanilla Caramel Nitro Coffee with an extra shot of espresso.” I probably shouldn’t have gotten more caffeine, but the effects of my orgasm were fading, and my patience was wearing thin.
While I waited for my drink, the door opened behind me, and a rather nondescript woman in a soft gray V-neck with a crossword puzzle in hand walked in. She made me feel like a giant next to her, and thoughts of Davia quickly bounced around in my head, but I shook them out. Was she Shorty?
I stared at her, but she refused to make eye contact, which made me pause. If it was Shorty, wouldn’t she be looking for me, too? She seemed focused on the drink menu and determined not to speak or be noticed.
