An idea hits me, and I perk up.
“Will Lola be there?”
Finn blinks at me. “You know Lola?”
Cohen laughs. “He was lucky enough to get her number.”
Finn crookedly grins. “Wait a minute. You got the pleasure of speaking with Callum?”
“Sure did,” I mutter.
“Dude, I’d stop there,” Finn warns. “Lola would tear you apart and then spit you out.”
I eye Cohen, ignoring Finn. “Will she be there?”
He nods. “Oh, she’ll be there, but I can’t promise she won’t kick your ass.”
“Challenge accepted.”
Chapter Two
Lola
Calls from your exes carry two different emotions:
Anger that you’re no longer together.
Sadness because you’re, well, no longer together.
Calls with my ex are an alternative to the standard. Callum is angry, but not because we’re no longer together.
“What did I tell you about giving out my number?” he hisses through the phone.
Revenge is best served in the form of receiving calls from the men who hit on the girl you’d cheated on.
“Whoops.” I laugh, not bothering to hide my enjoyment of his irritation. “I must’ve gotten our numbers mixed up again.”
“Admit it,” he says, and I can imagine the smug smile he’s sporting. “You do it because you miss me.”
Men and their egos—always thinking revenge is because we still love them.
“Negative.” I open my car door, settle my bag into the passenger seat, and balance my phone between my ear and shoulder as I get in the driver’s side. “I do it because I’m bored, and you deserve it.”
“Bullshit. You still think about me.”
“You’re right. I think about you when I reflect on how it was to have a shit boyfriend. Have a good day, and I’ll be sure to send more phone calls your way.” I end the call, toss my phone down next to my bag, and push my black sunglasses up my nose.
Some might consider giving his number out petty. It is. But I don’t care because Callum deserves it.
Let me paint the beautiful scene of dating Callum.
Imagine having sex with your boyfriend and him not caring about your big O. Then the asshole has the audacity to pull out, release on your stomach, and smear it across your skin—as if his jizz is a damn gift. He then rolls off the bed and says, “Gotta go clean up, babe.” Like he’s the one with cum on his belly.
As I lay there, brooding over how sticky and gross sperm was, his phone beeped with a text.
Then beeped again.
And again.
Then it rang.
I make no apologies for my nosiness—it could’ve been an emergency, you know? I grabbed his phone to find a text from Brittany: Blonde from Club Mania.
Like an idiot, his passcode was his birthday, so it didn’t take a rocket scientist to unlock it.
Brittany: Blonde from Club Mania had texted, asking if he missed licking her vagina … and then sent a close-up picture of said vagina he’d allegedly lapped up.
I scrolled through their past messages to learn they’d licked each other several times while he and I were together.
I proceeded to do what any sane person would. I grabbed his favorite—very expensive and dry-clean-only—shirt to clean his cum off me, pulled my lace panties up my legs, slipped my dress on, and left without a word, certain I’d figure out the best revenge for him later. He texted after his shower, discovering his bed was empty, and I replied that he should spill his cum on someone else because it would no longer be his pleasure to do so on me.
I thought of my revenge the next day while visiting my granny in the nursing home when a guy asked for my number. A guy I’d never be interested in because he’d helped his grandmother cheat during bingo, which caused my grandmother to lose. Knowing I couldn’t associate myself with another cheater, I came up with the bright idea of giving him Callum’s number.
That was a month ago, and since then, it’s become my new go-to.
Ten outta ten, ladies.
Highly recommend it.
Barbecues at Cohen’s are my favorite.
I’m not much of a barbecue girl per se—considering I’d burn down the entire block if I attempted to even light a grill—but I enjoy attending them. I get to sit outside with the girls and munch on calorie-ridden snacks while Cohen grills. It’s something we’ve done since high school.
Cars are packed on Cohen’s driveway, so I park on the curb. I step out of my black Porsche and grab his birthday gift—a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. With him being a bartender and my family owning one of the top liquor distribution companies in the Midwest, we appreciate quality alcohol.
The sun beams down on me as I walk up the drive and then step through the creaky wood gate that leads into the backyard. The air smells of fresh-cut grass, and I make my way toward the round table where everyone is seated. The usual gang is here—my best friends, Georgia and Grace, along with Cohen and Finn. Who isn’t usually here is the extra person seated next to Finn.
It’s him.
Silas.
The guy I gave the wrong number to at the bar.
And the one who most likely called said number, given Callum’s call earlier.
Cohen stands at the grill, flipping burgers. The others are wrapped in deep conversation, clueless to my arrival, but not Silas. He’s sitting tall in the chair that directly faces the entrance to the backyard. He levels his gaze on me as though he’s been anxiously awaiting my arrival.
The shit-eating grin on his face confirms he’s not as shocked to see me as I am him. He doesn’t appear as angry as I’d expect from someone who was given the wrong number. He knew I’d be here and came with one goal—to mess with my head, not rip it off. If he were that upset about my wrong-number game, Cohen never would’ve allowed him to come.
I keep a straight face, tighten my hold on the gift bag, and pull my shoulders back before strutting toward them.
Two can play this game, buddy.
I’ll also be kicking Cohen’s traitorous ass.
Silas’s smile grows more arrogant with every step I take toward him.
Today is the first time I’ve had to face one of my wrong-number victims.
I didn’t have to worry about the nursing-home cheater because, luckily, my grandma quit bingo, stating, “That bitch Thelma always wins.”
The few others were random men at bars.
“Look who’s finally arrived!” Silas shouts, dramatically slapping his knee like my grandfather does when he sees a grandchild walk in, and then stands. “It’s Callum.”
As much as I wish I didn’t, I freeze at him calling me Callum.
Oh, this asshole.
He’ll be lucky if he leaves this barbecue alive … or at least with two working legs. He could easily live with only one kneecap … and surely, taking out one leg isn’t much prison time.
Shaking away my thoughts of bodily injury, I keep my chin up and stroll forward. Drinking Silas in, I hate that he’s exactly the type of man I find attractive. Six-plus feet so that there’s still a significant height difference when I wear heels. Thick hair, the color resembling the top-shelf whiskeys I sell to clients on the regular. It’s long on the top and shorter on the sides with a slight flip in the front. The black button-up, rolled at the elbows, that he wore at the bar is replaced with a simple black tee. Just like I love wearing black, I find it incredibly attractive when men do too.