Page 65 of XO Karma

“These are very important questions.” He chuckles. “Take the phone with you. Just in case.”

“In case what? You need to track me?”

“That phone is from the same year Shrek 2 came out. The only thing people were tracking with it was their amount of texts so the phone bill didn’t bankrupt them.”

I snort a laugh. “When I was thirteen, my dad made me and Violet get jobs at a local ice cream shop because mine was insanely high from texting her.” A twinge tightens in my chest. “We got so sick of ice cream we couldn’t eat it again till college.”

“That’s adorable.”

“Yeah.” My gaze wanders to a photo of me and Violet on my dresser from a beach trip in high school. Our smiles are big, hair wild, and her arms are wrapped around me. If I close my eyes, I can almost smell the salty air and the citrus scent of her perfume mixed with sunscreen.

“Just bring the phone, please,” Aster says, pulling me back to reality. “You can call and text me. But that’s about it. My number is saved.”

“This feels unnecessary. We’re not covert spies.”

“No, but we are investigating a serial killer and possibly obstructing justice by not sharing what we know.” Well, when he puts it that way… “And I’m sure your brother would love that.”

“Are you one of those tin hat people who thinks the government is listening in on our every phone call?”

“Are you one of those naive people who thinks they couldn’t if they wanted to?” he asks, and my jaw ticks. “Can you just trust me on this?” Another beat of silence passes between us. “Please.”

Please. I grumble in my head. Why does that word always work? “Fine.”

“Good girl,” he says with a rumbling laugh that surrounds me until I click the line dead.

He’s next.

Using the reflection of the shitty bar bathroom mirror, I sweep a rose-red lipstick across my bottom lip. Puckering them, I check the color spread and bare my teeth to ensure none ended up there.

After dropping the tube in my purse, I fluff my blonde to pink ombre hair, which is styled into loose curls. The backless black dress I’m wearing reveals the perfect amount of skin, and while I believe a woman should be able to wear whatever she wants and not be approached, I do think this particular outfit choice will capture Nolan’s attention.

I pull my phone out of my clutch and check the Karma request one more time, burning the target’s face into memory.

Blond hair.

Brown eyes.

Freckles.

Exiting the bathroom, I make a beeline for the bar and situate myself on a stool, legs crossed.

“What can I get you?” a burly bartender asks.

“Dry martini with gin, please.”

A moment later, I’m scanning the crowded room, glass in hand. On the opposite side, I spot a blond skeezy-looking guy sitting by himself nursing a draft beer. He takes a sip, eyes bouncing around, and I hold my gaze until his eyes lock with mine. Jackpot. Grinning, Nolan sets down his beer, foam perched on his mustache. I take a sip of the martini, then dart my tongue out to lick a drop of liquid off my bottom lip. His eyes home in on the action, and I force a flirtatious smile, turning back towards the bar.

If there’s one thing men like, it’s a chase. As I swirl the martini, a skeevy feeling crawls up my spine, and a moment later, there’s an arm resting on the top of my seat. “Pretty girls like you shouldn’t drink alone,” the raspy voice says, like he smokes ten packs a day or lived inside a coal mine, and my skin crawls. Why did I agree to this? Without even seeing his face, I know it’s my guy. Taking a slow inhale, I turn on my charm and spin his way. The moment my eyes meet Nolan’s brown beady ones, I fight a full body shudder. His freckled skin has a sheen on it like he’s been sweating since breakfast. He’s wearing a T-shirt with a giant fish on it, cargo shorts, and sandals in October. Pretending to like this guy is going to be a challenge in and of itself.

“Maybe I prefer drinking alone,” I tell him, trying to determine how the hell I’m going to pull this off. “Ever thought about that?”

He faux pouts. “No one who dresses like”—his eyes trawl along my body, and I know I wore this on purpose, but I wish I could pluck his eyes out the way he drinks me in—“that came out looking to drink alone.” The feminist in me is screaming fuck off, but Karma has bills to pay. “And I like to think I’m pretty good company.”

“Hmm.” I do a ditzy shrug. “Darn, you caught me.”

He grins victoriously, taking a seat in the stool beside mine. “Where are you from, beautiful?”

“Around.” I retrieve the martini for another sip. The tart liquid gliding down my throat gives me the encouragement to keep entertaining this conversation. When I first started doing requests that required me to play a more active, front-facing role, I’d hype myself up for days. But the more I did, the easier it got to pretend I was someone else. Sometimes it was even… fun. I’m aware there’s a level of risk that comes with them, but letting men like this keep doing what they’re doing is way more dangerous for the rest of the population. So, I guess you could say I’m taking one for the team.