UNUSUAL VOCAB
*Thot: (noun)(sing.) A slang term for a woman who has many sexual encounters or relationships and is typically derogatory.

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⌞M I N D E L Y N⌝
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⌞♥⌝ "Listen, whatever it is. Just promise me it's legal, Blake."

Only God knows how long I had been begging for mercy. My glare on the twenty-five-year-old man in nothing but crimson boxers only intensified as he dug through my toiletry bag. Sprawled out on my bed like he owned the place, a barely contained grin played at the corners of his lips and made my left eye incessantly twitch in growing frustration.

"Rhy, I'm damn serious. The job market is already a hot mess without a felony. So, I can't do anything crazy, please." My words, dripping with desperation, waited for a solid response only to receive his unbothered humming at the end. At that moment, the holy spirit in my blood kept me at my study desk and not bashing his neon-green head with my brand-new flask.

Just as I was about to break and unleash a verbal hurricane of profanity upon my best friend, my mind took a detour down Memory Lane and straight into the land of Regrets-ville.

The previous night had all begun innocently enough — a game of beer pong, a couple of shots too many, and faster than you can say 'bad idea,' my foolish ass wagered that I would try anything Blake suggested for an entire week if he could beat me at Battleship. Fast forward to the present moment, and there I was, staring at my desktop monitor with disbelief and dread, realizing that I might as well have signed up for a week-long root canal instead of whatever Blake Rhyson had cooking in his cauldron.

"Aw, Mindelyn, it's not like you have a choice," commented Blake, still not sparing me a glance.

His grin widened ever so slightly as he pulled out a colorless bottle of nail polish with a cheerful, "Found you, you little bitch." His deep emerald eyes gleamed with mischief as he lounged back, broadcasting his pale, long model-like body. With his vampirish pale skin against the midnight blue sheets, he was a perfect picture of casual confidence.

Locking eyes with me, he shook the polish and spoke up, "Aw, come on, Mindy, live a little! You're always yammering on about needing some excitement in your life. Well, I've got just the ticket to shake things up."

Arms folded across my chest and skepticism practically radiating off of me, I deadpanned, "And pray to tell, oh grand master of mayhem, what harebrained scheme have you cooked up this time?"

Blake's grin turned eerily devilish. "Fever Flings."

"Hmm... Fever Flings, huh?"

My lips pursed in a thin line, and my eyes narrowed. It sounded familiar. However, for some reason, I couldn't pinpoint the exact memory.

Whatever it was, if it came from my particular childhood friend, it always spelled trouble.

Having reservations about everything, I spoke up. "Sounds like a one-way ticket to a hospital bed."

He chuckled with a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Not quite. Then again, I suppose a bed is involved at some point of the experience, but some people might like to be more creative than that."

Plagued by my hangover's demon of a migraine, my brain took some time to register what was said. However, when it clicked, my jaw practically hit the floor as I screamed, "No way! You want me to sign up for a dating app? Are you out of your damn mind?"

"A little," he snickered, clearly amused by my reaction.

"And you're proud?"

"Listen, Lyn. Some craziness seasoning is needed to brighten a personality because, let's face it, sanity is too overrated."

"Until you end up in an asylum." I snorted, shaking my head.

Blake shrugged, his gaze lingering on my face for a moment too long to be innocent. "Hey, life's too short to play it safe, right? Besides, who knows what — or who — you might find on there."

Bull. It was all a load of bull. And he knew it.

However, a bet was a bet, and this was another consequence I had to pay for drinking in the same vicinity as this sadistic prick. So, with my last breath of peace, I signed my freedom away for a solid week: "Fine, whatever -- but just so we're clear, Blake, if this turns into a dumpster fire, you're on my hit list. Number one spot. In bold print."

"Sounds like a fair deal to me, but ..." Blake nodded with a few laughs. His grin softened into something more genuine, a touch of warmth creeping into his gaze as he met my eyes. "... Lyn, I would never hurt you. Push you a little? Probably. But if it harms you in any way, I don't think I could live with myself. You know that, right?"

He was right, and I hated that.

So, I pouted. "Yeah, I know."

"Good." Tilting his head, he cracked a smirk in my direction and commanded, "Now quit stalling and download the damn app before I change my mind and sign you up for the next season of The Bachelor instead. Casting only closes next week, and you know better than anyone how I have the connections to make you a star, my dearest gumdrop."

An icy shiver danced down my back as I stuttered, "Rhy-Rhyson, you wouldn't..."

"Oh, my dearest Suberson, don't tempt me." He topped off his threat with a quick unscrew of the bottle of varnish and a wink that drained all the blood from my face.

Turning my back to him, I spun my swivel chair around and powered up my computer. As the dull screen took its sweet time to illuminate, I had a stareoff with my reflection, the moody young black woman in a bonnet. The charcoal face mask I had on was so dry that it cracked under the weight of my scowl. It was as if someone held a gun to my head as I reached for my keyboard and typed my dignity away into the search bar. As I waited for the darn thing to download, I couldn't help but grumble under my breath like the Grinch on Christmas Eve.

Dating apps are either the devil himself or him disguised as an angel with the malicious intent to wreak havoc on your otherwise peaceful life. Nothing good ever comes from them except STIs or messed up relationships that make you wish you were one of two things: single again or the next Ted Bundy -- if ultimate villain arcs are your vibe.

So, to sum it up, these apps are a hot mess and a huge waste of time. As I was forced to 'spice things up' this time with this cursed app and had reached the registration page, it dared to rob me in broad daylight.

"What the actual fuckery did I just download?" I exclaimed, bewildered by the contents of my screen. "$690 just to sign-up? Do I need to sell my kidney to register on this thing?"

Absurdity was the only answer here. And only one person in my life would join in the craziness without batting an eye.

So, I snapped my head towards the culprit behind the outrageous dating app suggestion. My intense glare returned to the young, milky-skinned man calmly painting his nails jet black in nothing but crimson boxers on my messy, undone bed.

From his soft singing, I could tell he hadn't heard me. So, in a louder tone, I repeated myself, "Blake Everett Rhyson, what is this thieving app for exactly? And why is it asking for all my savings?"

Blake kept his focus on his nails as he reminded me, "You said you wanted to get out in the dating world and get something exciting. So I thought Fever Flings, the app that got me my woman, would be best. It's, technically, a hook-up app for the super wealthy, but broke asses like us can sign up and take our chances -- if you're hot enough, that is."

Arms crossed and lips twisted, the sarcasm flowed out of me. "Uh, I get it. So after annihilating me in beer-pong and crushing the reaming crumbs of my dignity in a game of battleship, I have to sacrifice my soul to the devil to register for this thing?"

"Sweetheart, this devil wears Prada and can book your cruises in the Bahamas. So consider it a peace offering instead," said this shameless idiot with a flash of a grin while blowing at his wet nails.

As a murderous urge fuelled my glare, he remained unbothered and shrugged. "What? Beggars can't be choosers in this world, Lyn."

"Well, if that's the case,  you can count this beggar out." I dropped my mouse and pushed my keyboard aside. There was no way anything was worth one-quarter of my savings.

Before I even moved a muscle and deleted the cursed thing, Blake lifted his neon-green-haired head my way and threw his credit card. It landed on the crotch area of my flannel pajamas, and all I could grumble was, "Great landing, weirdo."

A small chuckle left his grinning lips. "There, it's fixed, Miss Melodrama, and no, you don't owe me anything. It's Monique's money. So I couldn't care less about it."

Old enough to be his mother, Ms. Monique Spikes was a very wealthy, well-known, and very... 'interesting' woman in his life. I use the term 'interesting' very lightly because I mean batshit crazy. So, understandably, I was hesitant to use his generously gifted card.

Hesitation tickled my throat as I lifted a brow. "I don't know, dude... Are you sure you want me to pay for a dating site with this thing?"

Confusion was written all over his face; he stared at me for a few seconds longer than usual. "Yeah. What about it? I use it for everything, so I highly doubt another 500 bucks will even dent that millionaire's bank account."

Once money was the topic of discussion with him, common sense would usually take its leave. So I had to explain myself, "That's true... But what I'm trying to say is, won't your sugar mama pick it up through a bank statement? And won't she ask questions? And — I don't know — perhaps kill you?"

The last thing I needed was for him to be interrogated by that insane woman. From an outward appearance, she seemed like a sweet, lonely lady with a shitty husband, but that was far from the case. When she loved someone, she overdid it. It didn't help that she was infatuated with Blake — correction: she was borderline obsessed with him — and seeing this purchase would send her into a serious mental spiral.

"Oh, don't be dramatic. Don't worry about it," he assured me. However, by narrowing my eyes, he realized that I was not one bit convinced. He drew a long sigh and then elaborated, "Unlike her ex-husband, the woman trusts me enough not to go through that stuff. Seriously, she's never done it before, and it's been seven months since we've been together."

"Easy to say when you're still in the honeymoon phase with a possible obsessed serial killer," I replied with genuine concern in my voice. With the card in hand, I returned to the screen, entered its details, and made my way to the profile page. It was a classic black page with a bold gold font and a matching intricate design in the background. I admit it appeared fancier than any other dating application I had visited, but it was still not enough for my kidneys.

Regardless of my thoughts toward the app, my fingers started typing away, filling in the blanks in my profile. "The name is Mindelyn Suberson. I've had 24 years of singlehood, so, basically, I've been a pathetic loner since birth and can now declare myself an expert dick repellent. So, come get it while it's hot --"

Just as I was about to read out another line, something soft but solid enough to hurt and move my whole body whacked the back of my head, forcing me to smash my face on the screen. A groan of pain escaped my lips as I peeled my face off the monitor, leaving half of my face mask. My raging eyes found a baby-pink pillow and bonnet on the floor behind my chair before glaring at my irritated best friend.

I exploded, "What the actual fuck, Rhyson?'

"You're not a hermit or a dick repellent, Mindelyn Sei Suberson! I hate it when you talk down on yourself." He defended with a vicious pout and a tongue click. "Keep in mind that you're hot and ready to thot. Sell yourself; don't drown yourself before you're even on the market!"

Instinct made me roll my eyes and curse him for the millionth time under my breath as I went back to the incomplete profile. "Anyway, I reside in the heart of Grand Rapids, Michigan. No, I'm not looking for anything serious, and my hobbies are -- classified, you nosy bastards." My hands paused as I glanced over to my best friend again and asked, "What does the preference range of locations allude to?"

"It's asking if you are looking for people in specific countries for a hook-up," responded Blake. He blew on his freshly manicured fingers before moving to the other hand and stating, "People on this site sometimes fly out to have their one-night stands."

My eyes almost left my skull. "Are you serious? That takes up money!"

"Yeah, but most people on here, literally, bathe in it, so it doesn't make much of a difference for them. Trust me, for the elite, it's like us normies going on a quick trip to our local grocery store. It's no biggie."

Still boggled, I returned my gaze to the screen before me and filled in the remaining details while thinking aloud. "Honestly, I don't think I care where they're from."

In my book, the further, the better. Even the idea of booty-calling an alien sounded like a far better bar story than being went down on by someone's balding grandpa whose greatest achievement was golfing with Bill Gates on weekends anyway.

Entertaining the ridiculous thought, I wrapped up my tediously lengthy profile and began my second round of job hunting. Several email notifications came through and at some point, I paid them no notice as they faded into the background, especially the ones from Fever Fling.

That was my first mistake. Because among those junk messages was a particular one that read:

Hello, Miss Suberson.

Welcome to the exclusive Fever Fling community. You are receiving this email because an important client on our diamond plan has added you to their favorite list. As of now, a background check on you is underway as our team works with the client. We will be in touch with you shortly.

Best of luck,

India Rodriguez

Senior Manager at Fever Flings

It was one email. Just one little demon of a letter that slipped past my radar like a ninja in the night. Unbeknownst to me, amidst the digital chaos, this sneaky message held the power to flip my world upside down in the most chaotic way possible.

But who needs emails, right? Famous last words. ⌞♥