Page 23 of Text Me, Take Me

Evie: Stop pushing that point as if I’m some generational talent. I buy scrap metal online and do my best to hammer it into shape. It’s a fun little hobby, Warden.

Dom: You’re wrong, Keepsake. My only talent, the only reason I am where and who I am, is because I’m able to identify talent when I see it. That’s what my business is: finding the best TV personalities, the best podcasters, the best dealmakers, et cetera. You’ve got talent.

It’s like he’s turned the manipulation dial up to eleven. When we were together in person, I could use his attraction to me.

But now he’s hidden behind the shield of texting. I can’t touch him, kiss him, or stroke him to make him lose his cool.

Evie: Are you trying to manipulate me?

I type, but then I delete the message.

What’s he going to say – yes? He won’t admit to it even if he is, which he’s definitely doing. Maybe I need to go along with this. If I indulge this line of questioning, I can make him believe we’re building a rapport, then use it against him when the time comes.

I finally reply.

Evie: Thanks.

Dom: Do you sell your pieces?

Evie: I used to have an online store, but I wasn’t able to sell much. Apparently, the rest of the world didn’t see what you see.

Dom: Or you needed more investment in advertising and infrastructure. I could give you that.

I squeeze my hand around the phone, almost tossing it across the room in frustration. He’s offering me something Idesperately wanted once upon a time. After Mom died, after I ran from The Vultures and tried to get a store started, I would’ve leapt at this chance.

Evie: I’m not going to let you buy me, Warden.

Dom: This has nothing to do with your perception of what I’ve done to you. This is about your talent.

Evie: Please, stop. My ‘perception’ is that I’m your prisoner and you’re trying to mess with my head.

Dom: Forget I mentioned the cash, then. Tell me how you got started.

Evie: If you care that much, it’s not a special story. I grew up in garages, scrap metal everywhere. One Mother’s Day, I wanted to get Mom a necklace because she’d lost hers. I didn’t have any money, so I scavenged around the garage until I had enough materials, then I twisted the pieces together and made a crude necklace. She loved it, and she encouraged me to keep going. The end. See? Nothing special.

I’m breathing hard, as if I didn’t type this message, but yelled the words into his infuriatingly handsome face.

Dom: That sounds special to me. You had a parent who saw your gift and encouraged you to build your skill. You had somebody who believed in you. That’s the most special thing a kid can ask for.

Evie: Didn’t you have that? Were your parents in the mafia too? Is that why you left to join the SEALs? Did they support you?

There’s a long pause, then he replies.

Dom: We’re not talking about me, Keepsake.

Evie: If you refuse to have a two-way conversation, we’re not going to have any kind of conversation. I’d say ‘goodnight’ but that would be a lie.

Dom: Bad night then, Evie.

I need to stop smiling at his stupid texts. I put the phone on silent and stuff it in a drawer so that I’m not tempted to text him again.

Rolling onto my side, I close my eyes, whispering, “His compliments won’t fool me. My only goal is to get out of here.”

I’m lying to myself if I claim his text didn’t have an effect, and worse, the memory of the scintillating steaminess is still showering my body in unwanted and desperately wanted tingles.

Biting my lip, I stroke my hand down my body. My lip actually hurts from how hard I’m biting it, but I can’t seem to stop as I get closer to my sex. I know this is wrong. My nickname for him was perfect.

Warden, because this is a prison.

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