Page 7 of Meet Hate Love
I turned, tilting my head to glare right back up at his giant self.
“I really hope you enjoy your trip to the lunchbox museum, Blake.”
Oh, he did not just try to sound genuine!
Margot must have felt the spark of anger that shot through me like a constipated glob of lava escaping Mount Etna right before it blew. Why else would she have grabbed my arm? “Murder is bad,” she whispered just as the elevator came to a stop.
“Yeah?” I stared at him while I attempted to shake free of Margot’s hold. “Well, I hope you burn your tongue on a wiener schnitzel, Vance.”
Then he smiled, which I was pretty sure was more condescending than his stupid smirk. “Austria’s not on the agenda.”
“Choke on a baguette, then,” I said.
The doors slid open, and I pulled away from Margot’s hold, storming out of the elevator.Austria’s not on the agenda.Was he serious? I shoved through the revolving doors and into the stench of exhaust and greasy street food.
Margot stumbled out after me, phone in her face. “No fucking way…”
“Right?” I turned around, watching Vance walk off in the opposite direction. “He’s inconceivable.”
Margot patted my arm. “At least you could use one of your fun words.”
“I take it back. He’s more cantankerous. No—” I snapped my fingers as we headed down the sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the Manhattan lunch crowd—“He’s churlish.”
“I love you, Blake, but you’re weird as hell sometimes.”
“We’re journalists, Margot. We’re supposed to enjoy words.”
“You went into journalism because you like to write. I went into it because I watchedAlmost Famouswhen I was high off my ass, went online, and changed my major from theatre to writing hell.” Still staring at her phone, she sidestepped a billow of sauerkraut-infused steam rolling from a hot dog cart. “Plus, I always thought I’d end up atRolling Stoneinterviewing rock stars who I’d seduced after we went off the record.” She rounded the street corner with a disheartened sigh. “Goodbye, dreams. Goodbye, rock stars with pierced cocks. Hello, trips to Mackinac Island, Little Big Horn, and men who wear fanny packs because they’re ‘useful.’”
“You would have been fired fromRolling Stonewithin a week and probably slapped with at least three restraining orders.” It was true. Margot was… well, insane in a fun yet surprised-she-wasn’t-in-jail kind of way. She would have, one hundred percent, handcuffed a rockstar until he agreed to take her to dinner.
“Just because I would hogtie Spencer Hailstorm…”
To be fair, I think most women would be tempted to hogtie the lead singer to Midnite Kills.
We stepped into the dimly lit interior of Mr. Chang’s, the stale scent of greasy stir fry and lo mein thick in the air. “Hogtying someone is a crime,” I said, heading between the tables.
“In some states, it’s a contest.” Margot plopped down in our usual booth by the algae-covered fish tank. “But speaking of crimes. I discovered something very interesting in the elevator… How do you feel about blackmail?” She slid her phone across the table as soon as I settled into the booth across from her.
My gaze dropped to the screen, or better yet, to the massive, pierced dickonthe screen. One which would have easily been the hottest penis I’d ever seen if it weren’t for the crappy, hand-drawn smiley face scribbled across the engorged head. To make matters worse, the thing had stick arms. One of which clung to a piece of Photoshopped luggage. And underneath it all:Announcing Paul’s Europenis Tour.
“Margot, what in the…”
“Just keep perusing it.”
I clicked on the gallery icon. A picture of a Thor-like cock in front of the Parthenon—without stick arms—popped up. I slapped a hand over the device just as a family of four passed by the table.
Dear God, I’d almost forgotten we were in the middle of a restaurant.
“Why are you looking at—” I whispered the wordporn—“in Mr. Chang’s Buffet? Margot, you’ve got to stop subscribing to these weird sites. You’ve already had your credit card information stolen four—”
“For the last time, it’s not a porn site.” The way her red eyebrows pointed down made her look positively offended. “It’s Lonely Fans.”
Of course, she’d say it wasn’t porn. “Margot, Lonely Fans is basically a porn site with a non-porn sounding name.”
“It is not. It’s a social media platform, thank you very much. And did you forget the part where I told you this wasblackmail?”
Honestly, I had. I mean, who wouldn’t forget something like blackmail when presented with a luggage-carting cock with the handle, My Dick Travels? “What does a traveling penis have to do with blackmail?”
