Page 21 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

I read aloud, “She says ‘that’s a dangerous question’.” Chief’s jaw tightens slightly.

Dash grins. “Tell her that’s a cop out.”

I type:

Humor me.

This pause lasts even longer. Outside, warm air hums with insects and distant traffic. Somewhere nearby, another bike engine growls low, then fades into the night. Finally, her reply lights up the screen:

It depends on what mood I’m in.

Dash whistles. Shadow’s mouth twitches slightly around the edges. Chief frowns, lips pursed. It’s the face he pulls when he’s concentrating. My phone buzzes again almost immediately.

I like how you make me laugh.

Dash fist pumps aggressively.

Another message.

I like it when you’re quieter, even if you notice too much.

Shadow goes still, his expression unreadable.

But I also like it when you’re bossy, because it sounds like you’d tell me exactly what to do. We all want to hand over control every once in a while.

A trace of a smile crosses Chief’s lips.

Sometimes, I even like how you sound like you’re one minor inconvenience away from murder.

Everybody looks at me, knowing smirks on their faces. “Rude,” I mutter.

We’re silent, mouths open in identical looks of disbelief and surprise. Does Sadie still think she’s talking to one guy, or is she just playing along? Waiting for us to admit it? Either way, she’s figured us all out. Her descriptions are a little too accurate.

Dash slowly sets his beer down. “Well. We’re fucked.”

Something territorial tightens hard beneath my ribs. Sadie likes all of us. Not separately, not one more than the others, but together, as one. Somehow, that should make this easier. Instead, it makes me want more.

The conversation shifts after that as I take control, desperate to prove that I can be enough. It gets dirtier, more personal. Sadie starts opening up between the flirting without seeming to realize she’s doing it. She talks about her ex-husband, about motherhood, about loneliness, about how strange it feels having someone actually pay attention to her again.

It’s at that point that I realize that none of us is just entertaining ourselves anymore. We eagerly wait for her messages, listening for the phone’s buzz. We fight over replies like assholes.

Dash sprawls across the couch beside me while typing one-handed.

Bet you look hot when you’re annoyed.

Her reply comes quickly:

Bet you say that to everyone.

Dash grins wickedly.

Only the pretty ones.

“Jesus Christ,” Chief mutters.

“What? It’s effective.”

Unfortunately, it is. Sadie responds: