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Chapter Six
Levi
I must pace the entire length of my apartment fourteen times before I find myself in front of my own computer. Grabbing the laptop, I head into the living room. First thing I notice when I glance at the mirror above the couch is that my hair is all crazy and standing on end from grabbing it and running my hands through it while I practically walked grooves in the carpeting. Next thing I notice? The flush of annoyance and possible rage coursing through me. You can practically see it radiating from my body.
Why would she want to date? She doesn’t need to date. At all. She’s perfectly fine sitting in her apartment all day, working her ass off, and then hanging out with me at night. What’s so wrong with that?
Then my mind flashes back to the things Tuck said. How would I feel if she met someone who treated her the way she deserved to be treated? Fuck. Me. She’s going to meet someone who’ll treat her the way she’s always deserved to be treated, isn’t she? Isn’t she?! My head pounds and my heart gallops. This can’t happen.
She’s my friend and it’s my civic duty as part of the friend code to watch out for her. So much can go wrong on those stupid dating sites. What if she chats with a guy who seems perfect, then he turns out to be a serial killer who wears women’s skin as clothes? No, not likely, but the danger is still very much alive and out there.
And my danger? I’m at risk of losing my best friend.
Fuck that.
Powering up my laptop, I know exactly what I have to do. There’s only one way to keep her safe from becoming some psycho’s skin suit and that’s to monitor the situation and keep a close eye on her. It’s the most logical thing any good friend would do, right?
Fuck no, I’m not going to tell her. Would you?
She’ll get all pissy and claim I don’t trust her enough to do this on her own. She’ll accuse me of being overprotective and slightly stalkerish. But it’s what I have to do. Keep watch on my girl – my friend, excuse me – and make sure she doesn’t fall victim to the woos of Internet dating.
First thing’s first: set up my own profile.
I type in PerfectDate.com into my browser and wait for it to pop up. My leg is bouncing so much, my computer practically jumps off my lap. Running my hand through my hair once more, I click the button to sign up. It only takes me a few minutes, but I’m in, in no time.
Profile name? Has to be something she won’t recognize. Can’t be my name, right? I mean, I’m not that big of a dumbass. Got it! She used her favorite song, so I’ll use mine. SimpleMan. Everyone knows Skynyrd, right?
Up next, profile pic. Well, again, can’t use my pic, even though she used a really great picture from last Christmas. It was actually one I took, believe it or not. We had just finished up our gift exchange and were getting ready to head to her dad’s place for lunch. I’m always invited to every family function, and try to go to every one when I’m not working. My own family isn’t nearly as close as hers, and my parents had planned on a late Christmas dinner. Therefore, it was completely logical that I go with Abby.
Anyway, back to my point, I took that damn picture with my new camera. She bought me an expensive Nikon since I was always complaining about the quality of pics on my phone. She helped me set it up and then let me snap a few pics of her while we were messing around. No – not that kinda messing around. I don’t take pics during those times. Well, not anymore. Always comes back to bite you in the ass. Know what I mean?
Yes, I’m off track here. Back to my point. I took that damn pic. I own the rights to it and I didn’t give her permission to use it as a profile picture on some fucking dating website. She looks stunning and radiant in the picture, which is why I sent it to her. Now she’s using it against me.
Traitor.
Well, I can’t use my own picture or she’ll know it’s me, so I grab a folder on my desktop and strum through some of the band photos. There I find a close-up shot of my favorite guitar. It’s not one I use on stage, but one that sits in my spare room on a stand, and only brought out for special occasions.
Like when I’m playing for Abby.
I quickly upload the photo to my profile, and fill out the rest of the garbage they require to set up shop on their stupid site. I don’t need to lie to make sure I’m compatible with Abs; I already know I am. I just have to be vague enough that she won’t realize who she’s dealing with.
Once I get myself all squared away, I wait while it pairs me up with other singles in the area. Sixty-five matches. What the fuck? Okay, so I might have left some of the categories a little too vague. I’m not interested in sixty-four of them, but I have to click through them until I find my girl. My friend.
Not bad face, click past. Huge knockers, click. Bird-beak nose, click. I run through them all, taking in their profile pic, but not reading anything about them. I’m not here to date, I’m here for my friend.
After what feels like ten thousand clicks, I finally find her. Her gorgeous face smiles at me from the screen and my heart flops around in my chest like a fish on the sand. Her hair is down, hanging loosely around her shoulders, just the way I like it best on her. Her green eyes radiate excitement and happiness. You can’t tell it from the picture, but she’s holding the hardback book with her name folded in the pages. It’s a specialty shop I found online that does all kinds of book projects. She loved it.
Again…moving on.
I click the like button on her profile and pull up a message. It takes me only a few moments to think of what I want to say before I hit send. There. Sent.
Feeling much better and lighter about the whole situation, I shut down my laptop and get ready to head back to Abby’s. Before I can open my door, I remember that I was supposed to have come back over here for a reason. Checking my place, I find a bottle of bourbon on top of the fridge that I pull out for special occasions. No, this doesn’t constitute as one of those times, exactly, but if I go back over there empty-handed, then I basically just look like one of those douchebags she’s going to be talking to on the Internet.
Bottle in hand, I head back over to her place.
Letting myself in her front door, I walk into the kitchen like I don’t have a care in the world. She’s standing there, wringing her hands together, and wearing a look of concern on her face. “Everything okay?” she asks, worrying that lush bottom lip of hers between her teeth. I almost groan.
And my cock turns to stone.
