Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Chapter 3
Dex
To say my date this evening went horribly wrong is an understatement.
I lean back against my pillows, showered and shaved and exhausted, my fingers drumming anxiously on the mattress next to me as my brain recounts the train wreck that was my date with Claire.
It started off promising enough. Meeting someone new always comes with a nervous excitement and anticipation that this could finally be the one who frees me from having to masturbate in the shower, night after night.
But as soon as Claire walked through the door of the sleek bar I’d chosen to meet her at, I knew the night was headed straight for the gutter.
I’m sure you’re asking yourself why.
Dex, what could have possibly been so bad?
Well. Let’s just say the pictures she used in her profile must have been taken during the Paleolithic era because the woman who showed up? Looked nothing like the photos she’d posted.
Not even in the same decade.
Now, I’m all for embracing natural beauty—but there’s a limit to how much Photoshop and editing a person should be allowed to get away with, and let’s just say: she had crossed that limit by a mile.
I tried to hide my shock and disappointment behind a polite smile, but it was impossible to ignore the glaring disparity between expectation and reality. I also couldn’t ignore the fifteen years that had been added to her face—Claire is nowhere near my age, not even close.
I hate being lied to.
Strike one.
“This was a waste of my time,” I said, stifling any chance of salvaging the evening. “No.”
“No? You’re just gonna . . . leave?” She raised her thin eyebrows, frosted lipstick from another era sticking to her upper front teeth. “But I want to get to know you! You’re Dex Lansing!”
She clearly only wanted to date me because of who I am, which was strike two. Plus, she was screeching: strike three.
My head was shaking.
No, no, God no! “Not happening.”
I’m out.
Standing, I reached into my back pocket. Pulled out my wallet to retrieve a ten-dollar bill, then smacked it onto the center of the bar.
“Get yourself a drink.”
“Wait.” She shimmied herself onto a barstool. “You’re leaving?”
I rolled my eyes—I couldn’t stop it if I’d tried. “Uh. Yeah, I’m leaving. You didn’t think I was actually going to stay.”
Her flared nostrils told a different story. “What am I supposed to tell my friends, you asshole—I already told them all I was going on a date with a football player!”
Ergo, reaffirming my belief that she only wanted to go out with me because of my name and is worried about what her friends might think.
Strike four—which is more than baseball allows.
Ha!
“Great. Leave. It doesn’t matter anyhow. The Kissmet app has all my data,” Claire ranted, squinting her eyes. “They’re watching us, you know.”
But then, before I could formulate a response to that, Claire did the one thing no woman has ever done to my face: she launched into a passionate monologue about reptilian overlords and government conspiracies, hands gesturing wildly, voice booming.
It was so . . . weird.
And so random.
Strike five was my cue to get out of there before I lost my damn mind.
In the comfort of my own home, my tense body relaxes, finally at ease.
I can breathe.
I can open my app and see if any of my matches have left messages first, since I haven’t had the chance. Now that I’m home, I can mark myself safe from my date with Claire and respond to people on Kissmet.
My mouth widens into a grin when I see a message from Margot, the woman I matched with before leaving for my disaster date.
Margot:
What do you think would get you laid more often: pretending to be a professional football player on a dating app, or being one in real life?
Whoa.
Feisty little thing.
My hackles are immediately raised.
Me:
No hello? Damn, girl, you get straight to the point.
I peel my socks off to get more comfortable as I wait for her response, wiggling my toes.
Ahh.
Margot:
I hate wasting time. Love cutting to the chase, don’t you?
Me:
Sure.
Margot:
So what’s your answer?
Me:
Depends on the day you ask—this app is turning into a disaster. So I guess the answer is playing football in real life is the best way to get myself laid LOLOL.
Margot:
Guess I shouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to hear the answer #CarefulWhatYouWishFor
Me:
Why are you asking me about getting laid, anyway? Is adding to your body count your goal? You want to fuck a football star, honey?
A red stop sign appears on my screen, asking if I meant to send a message containing profanity and giving me the option to cancel the message—or send it.
I hit send.
Fuck it.
I said what I said.
Margot:
Whoa. Are you asking me if I want to Sleep with you??
Me:
I wasn’t asking you to sleep with me. I was asking if Your goal on this app was to sleep with a football player! Or to sleep around, because that’s not what I’m here for.