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“Why do you ask?” Daya asks, her voice full of suspicion.
I roll my lips together, debating. At this point, the only thing holding me back from telling Daya about the texts is her impending anger.
Finally building up the courage, I rush out, “Would you be able to trace an unknown number?”
Her eyes slant. “Did he text you from one?”
Shame creeps in. I should’ve told her this sooner, but I had a weird protective need to keep the texts to myself, just like with the police officer. Now, I realize how stupid that is when Daya is one of the best hackers in the world. Or so she says, at least.
I nod sheepishly and hand her the phone, the thread already pulled up. She snatches it from my hand, shooting me a heated glare, and reads through them.
Her eyes draw back to my own, fire licking at her pupils. “You’re just now showing me these?”
I groan. “I know, I’m a stupid bitch. I just… I don’t know, Daya. I honestly don’t. Can you trace them?”
“I don’t forgive you yet, but let me see.”
I don’t worry about her anger. Daya could get bit by a snake and immediately forgive it. She’s just playing hard to get right now.
What looks like frustration settles over her face. Her lips curve down, and as the seconds pass by, her frown deepens. She leans closer to the screen, still typing a mile a second.
After a few minutes, she slaps her palms on the granite and leans back, obvious anger now on her face.
“Untraceable,” is all she says.
My anxiety resurfaces. “So, this man can hack into my security cameras, override them, and can clearly text me from an untraceable number. Which means he probably hacked my phone and got my nudes.”
She looks up at me, and I already know my answer.
“It’s possible,” she says, though her tone conveys that it’s probable.
I drop my head to my laptop, surely pressing a bunch of keys, but I don’t care right now. A creepy ass dude potentially has my nudes. Worse, he probably has video footage of me naked. I suppose it’s not the worst thing in the world to happen—my body is fabulous. But I’ll definitely be mortified if they get leaked.
What if he uses them as blackmail? Never thought I’d think this, but hopefully, he’s too obsessed with me to leak them. He’s already proven to be highly possessive. If another man can’t even touch my thigh without getting his hands cut off, then surely he wouldn’t show the world my naked body?
“Did you delete them?” I nod, my forehead grating against the keys. I cringe at the noise. If I don’t stop, my big ass head will ruin my laptop.
I lift my head, pick up Daya’s glass of vodka and pineapple juice, and start chugging. She doesn’t complain. In fact, she slides over the entire bottle of vodka.
“Don’t obsess over it. If he hasn’t said anything about them yet, then there’s a good chance he doesn’t have them.”
Her words do little to make me feel better, but I appreciate the sentiment anyway.
“Who did you even send your nudes to?” she asks, snatching the bottle of vodka from my hand after I take a hefty swig.
“I haven’t sent a nude since I was twenty. I take nudes because I like my body and want to stare at it all day.”
Daya laughs. “I fucking love you.”
Sadly, she might not be the only one.
Her phone lights up. Instinctively, my eyes flash towards the screen, but it’s her snatching it up like the phone caught fire is what draws my attention to it.
I quirk a brow, watching her glance nervously at me.
“You don’t forgive me for keeping secrets, but yet you’re doing the same thing,” I state dryly.
She deflates, now looking like a dog caught with the toilet paper in its mouth.
