Junk Mail

Chapter Two

Chapter Two PeytonOne by one, all my friends are tying the knot.

No, not right this second, not literally. At the moment, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, waiting for a mug of soup to reheat in the microwave. But it still feels that way because over the last eighteen months, one by one, all my friends have either gotten engaged or married. I have four bridesmaid dresses hanging in my closet, and another two on order for this season’s weddings.

Meanwhile, I live with my grandmother, or rather she lives with me, but I’m as single as a serial killer on death row. Actually, that may not be entirely true. Serial killers probably get more action than I do.

It doesn’t matter. I’m pursuing my dreams, building an enviable career and nursing my entrepreneurial spirit one sale at a time. But all of that is about to change because tomorrow morning is my big chance. A meeting that can lead to my amazing subscription boxes being taken to the big leagues.

“Soup again?” Gram asks.

Gram is not only my roommate, she’s also my best friend and my maternal grandmother. Despite being eighty-two, in a lot of ways she’s hipper than I am. She wears those printed leggings that people fight over online and covet—today’s selection are a monkey-and-banana print. She gets her nails painted once a week at the salon down the street, and she knows the lyrics to all the songs on the radio. Gram is pretty much a silver-haired badass.

“Leftover split pea,” I say.

“One of us needs to learn to cook,” Gram mutters under her breath.

And by one of us, she means me. I’ve heard her say more than once to herself that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I also know Gram knows how to cook; she just chooses not to. Not that I can blame her. She raised four kids, was married and widowed twice, and was the epitome of a 1950s housewife. I think it’s cute that she’s having a late-stage feminist streak. So, soup it is. Or takeout. Building my business, I certainly don’t have the time or inclination to slave over a hot stove.

I grab my mug of soup from the microwave and set Gram’s inside, punching the buttons for two minutes.

“Thanks, sugar,” Gram says, picking up her latest knitting project from the counter.

Thankful to be done with work for the evening, I grab a spoon and set myself a spot at the table. While Gram fills me in on the latest gossip at the senior center, I get to work on my soup. Apparently, judging by the gossip that Gram is dishing out, even the elderly are getting more action than me.

“And when Duncan mixes his p***s pills with heart pills—look out.” Gram chuckles to herself like this is the most amusing and endearing quality a man can have. And at her age, maybe it is.

And there we have it, folks. My life is officially boring.

As I rinse my mug at the sink and place it inside the dishwasher, my phone chimes from the dining table.

Gram steps outside to check the mail while her soup cools, and I grab my phone to check it. There’s a text.

Unknown User: Hey.

Peyton: Um, can I help you?

A few seconds later, a photo appears on my screen.

It takes a moment for my mind to comprehend what I’m seeing. But the realization of what I’m actually seeing, and the number of days since I’ve seen this particular piece of anatomy, has me slow on the uptake.

So many words flash through my brain at once.

Flesh.

Male.

Rigid.

Engorged.

Large.

I squeeze my eyes closed and take a deep breath. What in the world? Who in their right mind sends a d**k pic to a complete stranger? And why did this very well-endowed stranger pick my number out of all the possible numeric combinations that exist?

Swallowing a sudden lump in my throat, I peek open one eye. Its size is . . . enviable. There’s no denying that. A freaking baseball bat would have Freudian-level jealousy issues.

Unknown User: That what you wanted, baby?

Peyton: And goodbyeeee.

What kind of freak is this guy? That’s just creepy. Ew. No matter how attractive said p***s actually is, and mind you, as p*****s go, his is actually a handsome one, that’s beside the point. Unwarranted photos of this nature are exactly why I don’t date. Men are just gross.

Unknown User: What? Seriously? It’s not that bad.

Something inside me seethes. The unwanted-peen-shot-sending population of men need to be put in their place.

Peyton: No, it’s not bad at all. But what the hell? Why would you send ANYONE this shot unsolicited?

Unknown User: You asked me to send it!

Peyton: Ha. Try again, buddy. I definitely did not in any way, shape, or form ask for this pic.

Unknown User: Wait. f**k. You’re not ButterflyGirl6, are you?

Peyton: Who? No. I’m definitely not.

He doesn’t reply right away, and a dry chuckle escapes my lips. Serves him right that someone gave him the wrong number.

But she’s kind of missing out on quite a nice schlong, to be honest.

I should be offended. Unsolicited d**k pics are aggressive, inappropriate, and downright rude. But strangely enough, I’m not offended. I’m kind of . . . intrigued.

My interest gets the better of me and I dare another glance at the offending member. My cheeks redden in a way that has nothing to do with the warm soup in my belly and everything to do with my lack of a s*x life.

Confronted by that . . . thing staring back at me, I have so many questions.

Namely, how does he haul it around all day? Isn’t it uncomfortable? Loads of other inappropriate questions like Do you only date sword-swallowers? flit through my brain. But I refrain from actually typing them out in a text to Mr. d**k Pic.

Thank God.

My kitchen table is hardly the place to be musing over such things. I move to get up, but before I can, Gram enters the kitchen and glances over my shoulder.

“What’s that, a ham hock?” she asks.

I slam the phone screen-down on the table. “What? No.”

I shake my head firmly, hoping to end this conversation before it starts. But given that I’m the only thing of importance in Gram’s life, she’s bound to be on this like a dog with a bone.

“Leg of lamb?” She gives me a curious look as she heads to the counter to make herself a cup of tea.

“No, Gram. Don’t worry about it.”

She shrugs, setting a teacup into a matching saucer. “Whatever it was, it looked delicious. So juicy and tender, I bet it melts in your mouth. I thought you were looking up recipes to cook for me.”

Letting out a groan, I shove the phone inside my pocket and rise to my feet.

Gram eyes me curiously. “You’re flushed, dear. Are you feeling well?”

Nodding, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket and place my hand protectively over it, eager to get out of the kitchen. “I’m fine. It’s sort of warm in here, is all. I think I’m just a little anxious about tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. The biggest day of my life, and here I am sexting with some stranger.

“Get some rest. Maybe a nice warm bath. I’ll bring you some tea once you’re settled,” she says, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “While you’re in the tub, you should really look up some more meat recipes like what was in that picture. I think I’m going to dream about that side of beef, or whatever it was, instead of that vegetarian stuff you keep feeding me.”

I squeak out a nonsensical reply and scurry toward the stairs, taking them two at a time because I seriously need to get out of this room. And according to my own grandmother, I seriously need to get laid.

Safely inside my bedroom, I shut the door behind me and tug my phone from my jeans pocket. Sinking onto the edge of my mattress, I read the new message.

Unknown User: s**t, I’m so sorry. Despite the aforementioned erection, I promise I’m harmless. Please accept this photo of me from the third grade as proof. My apologies.

Staring down at the most adorable photo of an awkward eight-year-old with gapped teeth and a bowtie, I let out a snort laugh. Who the hell is this guy? Someone extremely bad at flirting, that’s who. Some poor girl clearly gave him a fake number, wanting him to f**k off, and now I’m the object of his attention. Lucky me.

Peyton: OMG. That just made this entire exchange ten times more awkward.

Unknown User: Yeah, I guess it did. s**t. Clearly, I’m not very good at this whole thing.

Peyton: What? Being human?

Unknown User: The name’s Josh. Seriously, I’m really sorry.

Peyton: My name’s Peyton. Apology accepted—as long as you don’t whip out that flesh wagon again and assault me with it.

Unknown User: Only if you ask nicely.

I laugh. How sad that this is the most flirting I’ve done in over a year.

Peyton: Well, good night then, Josh.

Unknown User: Good night, Peyton.

I decide against asking him how exactly he plans to sleep while World War III rages between his legs—because, holy hell, that erection looked painfully swollen, but I do no such thing.

Instead, I busy myself with having a mug of sleepy tea with Gram, brush my teeth, and then review my notes for tomorrow’s presentation before I climb into bed and dream of being devoured by a giant one-eyed python.