Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“So it’s a fake account of sorts,” I tell her. “Like a fan page.”
She ignores my comment and then starts with other questions. “Do you have a Snapchat account?” I nod.
“How often do you use it?” She starts writing notes.
“I get up to three hundred tit pictures a day, so I go on there . . . occasionally,” I tell her, and she looks up.
“Do you reciprocate?” Her pen is in midair while she waits for my answer.
“Are you asking if I’ve sent a dick pic?” I try to keep my smirk from forming but fail. “I mean, not lately.”
“Great.” She shakes her head. “If you can refrain from sending any out in the future, that would make my job a little easier. Or better yet, just use that platform to make dog videos.”
“Aren’t you exaggerating just a little bit?” I say, and then I know I shouldn’t have said that. I should have just smiled and nodded like a good little indentured servant.
“Can I have your phone?” she asks with her hand outstretched.
“Are you going to put your number in it?” I ask her, leaning back in the chair, and her hand falls.
“Fine, keep your cell. We can use mine,” she says. Taking out her phone, she opens her Instagram page. I see she’s on her own account and make a mental note to go and check it out. She presses the little search button and types my name and then clicks tags. When she clicks on the first one, I’m a little shocked when videos of me out pop up. Like I knew they were there, but I didn’t think they would still be passed around.
“This one is a good one,” she says, turning the phone to me. On the screen is me sitting at Tao in Vegas, but I’m not sure. It’s on a red couch. I’m wearing jeans and a button-down shirt, but the shirt is halfway open. Two girls are on each side of me, and my hands are outstretched. I smile at the camera, then turn and make out with one and then turn to the other. I press the arrow back and go through a couple more, and they all have a different girl in them.
“If you want, we can even search the hashtag CarterBigJohnson.” She takes the phone and types it in. The first video is a girl, and she is describing my penis like she is giving a review on Yelp. There are a couple of pictures with women who have their hands down my pants. One video is of me and some random. Hell, they are all random now that I think about it. We are in a bathroom stall, and my head is back against the wall. She slides her tongue into my mouth, and you know or I know from the look on my face that she is giving me a hand job. The sound of me moaning makes her grab the phone away from me.
“That is exactly who you are?” She just shakes her head. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you.” She gathers the papers, then puts them away, closing her folder. “I’m tying to work with you, but I can’t do it by myself. I can’t be that little white angel on your one shoulder when I’m in direct competition with the devil on the other side.” She pushes away from the table and bends to put the papers in her purse. “I obviously can’t do this job. I thought I could, but I can’t.” She picks up her purse and then turns to walk away.
I watch her, and the words that Jeff said yesterday replay in my head. “Don’t fuck this up.”
“Wait,” I say to her, and she stops right before she walks into the house. “Listen, I don’t know what to say.”
“Yeah, you are pretty good at not knowing what to say or how to act,” she says, and she isn’t wrong. “I don’t care what you do and who you do it with. I care that I was given a job. A job that is huge for me right now.”
“How so?” I ask her, and she turns to me, shaking her head.
“Doesn’t matter,” she says and then turns around to walk into the house. I wait for the door to slam before my feet move, and I run around the side of the house. Taking the side steps two by two, I get to her car the same time as she is opening the door.
“Wait . . . please, Erin,” I say, panting. When she looks at me, I can tell she is either upset or pissed, and I feel like a jerk for doing that to her. “Just . . . we might have gotten off on the wrong foot.”
“The wrong foot?” She shakes her head, and I know she’s pissed. Her tone is that kind of “I want to kill you” tone I get quite often. I mean, often enough to know it, but usually, I shrug it off. This time, though, it does something.