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“We have to find out who she is,” says the other morning radio DJ. “I mean, she’s local, yeah?”
“Has to be. All the stuff she said comparing the TDH to a collection of dildos was classic. Hey, if any of you out there know who she is, give us a call!”
“Can internet videos be nominated for Pulitzers?”
“Webby Awards, I think.”
“Well, then let’s get this chick a Webby!”
“Viral,” I say. “Well, that’s awesome, right?”
“Yes!” Zoey screams. “Yes! Do you know we’ve already gotten eight emails since these guys started talking about us fifteen minutes ago?”
“Eight emails,” I say. Damn. We’ve been putting these Sexpert videos out for a year now and never got a single inquiry. We get plenty of comments, but those are mostly rude and talk about how men want to do things to my vagina. (Or butthole—that’s a pretty popular comment on the butt plug video.) So eight emails… in fifteen minutes. “That’s fantastic!”
“And we have fifty-five—no, fifty-six thousand views now! We’ve gotten a thousand more since I first texted you!”
“Jesus. This might be serious, huh?” I turn the radio down again because it’s gone to commercial. “How’d they hear about us?”
“Who cares? It’s the break we’ve been waiting for!” Zoey says. “Oh, my God. I gotta get back to editing the next video. We shouldn’t wait until Friday for this one. We should put it up tomorrow! Bye!”
I get hang-up beeps as the call drops. And for a few seconds I can only stare at the screen wondering if all that really just happened.
When I came up with the idea for the Sexpert it was out of desperation. I hate being broke. And I hate living at home. And since I work in the Tall, Dark, and Handsome neighborhood just south of the Denver Tech Center and live all the way over in the crappy part of Lakewood, sleeping in my childhood canopy bed since I graduated college four years ago has really sucked. The commute is horrible.
Example A of horrible commutes is the bumper-to-bumper traffic I’m currently stuck in. Though it usually isn’t this bad. Something must be happening over that next hill.
A knock on my window makes me jump. And when I turn my head cute-scruffy-jaw stranger is standing there—outside of his truck—motioning for me to roll my window back down.
I do that automatically, even though he might be a serial killer, because he’s very nice to look at.
“Can I help you?” I ask, squirming in my seat because I’m so hot now since I had the window rolled up for that phone conversation, sweat is literally pooling between my boobs.
“Do you have a charger I can borrow?” He holds up his phone like this explains everything.
“You shouldn’t be out of your truck,” I say, looking over my shoulder to see if he’s holding anyone up.
“We haven’t moved in eleven minutes. I think it’s OK just this once to get out of my truck on the freeway.”
“It could start moving any second,” I say, looking around because you just don’t get out of your car on the freeway. Even in stopped traffic.
“No, really. There’s a cow giving birth up over that hill. I heard it on the radio.”
“Stop it!” I laugh, slapping his hand. Which is gripping my half-open window. “There is not!”
“Seriously. Some cow got out of that pasture over there”—he points to a rolling pasture where dozens of cows are trotting up the hill like they’re late for an event or something—“and got onto the freeway and now she’s giving birth in the fast lane.”
I snort. It’s something I’m not proud of, but do often. “That’s crazy.”
He holds his phone again. “I was on a call and my phone died. Since we’re gonna be stuck here for the unforeseeable future, do you happen to have a charger I could borrow?”
We both glance down at my radio. Or, more accurately, the cassette player. Which is how I charge my phone in this old-ass truck my dad gave me when my college car died a horrible death during an impromptu trip to Vegas last fall.
“Oh,” he says.
“I have a real one,” I say quickly. Because he’s even cuter up close than he was from ten feet away and I want to be helpful. “But you gotta give it back. It’s the only good one I have.”
I don’t add, And I can’t afford to buy another one, because everyone knows they sell them for ten bucks at Wal-Mart. But even ten bucks is a lot of money to me today. I’m dead broke until payday and that’s not until the end of the week. I need that ten bucks for gas.
“Cross my heart,” he says, crossing his heart.
God, that’s adorable.
So I say, “One sec. Let me find it,” and start digging into my purse.
“You moving or something?” he asks.
