The next message is from Sunny. It looks like it’s from about an hour ago, if I’m right about it being after two in the afternoon now. I can’t understand a thing she says because it’s garbled. The only words I make out are pictures and bunnies.

Shit. This can’t be good. It has to be a misunderstanding. God knows there’ve been enough of them in the past few months. I can’t seem to stop messing things up with her, no matter how hard I try. That’s been the biggest roadblock to progress with Sunny. People post pictures all the time. Sometimes they don’t even ask before they snap their shots. It’s crazy.

There are two voice mails from my PA, but they can wait. This drama needs to be taken care of first. I flip to the text messages. These are way more of a challenge to go through. I’ve always been a slow reader. The only As I got in high school were in construction and gym.

It wasn’t that I didn’t get what was going on, it just took me seven million times longer to read the same thing everyone else did. It made me look stupid. People assumed because I was a jock I couldn’t be smart, too. So I stopped trying. Since my dad was a scout for the NHL and I had no mom—she died before I was old enough to really know her—teachers tended to be lenient.

I got tutors once I hit sophomore year, especially after I got my teeth knocked out and missed a bunch of classes. Once the new teeth were in and the bite problem fixed, tutors were more than willing to help me. More often than not, there’d be an “exchange” of services. They’d help write my essays, and I’d work on perfecting the art of orgasm by fingers. By senior year there were a lot of girls looking to help me manage my school work. My grades weren’t awesome—they weren’t even moderately decent—but I still managed to secure a hockey scholarship for college, which was all that mattered since that was the only thing I ever wanted to do.

Once I got drafted, there wasn’t enough time to do all my assignments, even with some flexibility from the college, so I dropped out. It didn’t make sense to struggle through a diploma I’d never use when I was going to make a shitton more money without it.

I have an endless number of texts from Vi and Sunny, but one is from Waters. He normally doesn’t message me. His is easy to read:

YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD, ASSHOLE.

The ones from Violet and Sunny are more of a challenge. There seems to be a lot of autocorrecting and text slang—which is the worst thing ever created. It makes the words more difficult to decode.

I bring up the text-to-speech app and listen as it takes the butchered English and turns it into Violet ranting. It’s much easier to understand, even with all the inaccurately corrected words.

Why the fork would you let someone draw a dock on your face?

Duck

Fork

Goddamnit Dick Fucking DICK, not duck. Autocorrect can suck my clot.

Clit. Asshole

The next set of messages came several hours later. The first one has twenty or so angry face emoticons attached to it.

Seriously?!!!!!! You're naked! Who is that chick?

Did someone lobotomize you?

The question is followed by several screen shotted pictures. The first is one of me sleeping. It wouldn’t be a big deal if I wasn’t obviously naked—my left ass cheek is visible—and if I didn’t have a huge dick drawn on my forehead. Worse is that Lance’s bunny—Flash Beaver—is giving the thumbs up and pretending to ride me from behind.

I’m seriously going to kick Lance’s ass.

A few are from last night. They don’t look nearly as bad—just me with the guys and a few bunnies taking selfies. But the one from today with the mostly undressed chick in her little bikini top sitting in my lap is damn incriminating.

Where the hell are you?

You better fucking call me.

I'm coming to your house.

Those last two were sent ten minutes ago.

Why aren't you here? You have a flight to catch!

I'm coming for you.

My phone rings as I finish listening to her texts. It’s Vi. Answering it is better than letting it go to voice mail again.

“I’m at Lance’s front door. Let me in.”

“What? How did you know I was here?”

“Because I’m psychic, and Instagram is my oracle. Now let me in. You are seriously interfering with my weekly orgasm quota right now.”

I have no interest in hearing more about that. I run down the stairs to the front door. Before I open it, I ask, “Is Waters with you?”

“Are you kidding? I left him at home. I’m not interested in reducing our sex life to conjugal visits. Besides, he’s too pretty for prison. They’d probably make him bottom because of his monster cock.”

“That’s more than I needed—”

“I don’t care what you need. I need Alex to not be pissed off. I can see you through the damn door. Open it.”

Violet is a small person. Maybe five four in heels, but she’s got an enormous personality to make up for her lack of size. I have a feeling I’m in for the verbal beat down of a lifetime.

“Should we shave your body hair so they can make wigs for the elderly?” she asks as soon as the door opens.

“What are you talking about?”

“After Alex kills you, you can donate your fur to charity. And maybe some of your more viable organs. I’m pretty sure everything but your liver is good. Ooooh, maybe they can use your micro-penis for a clitoris enlargement surgery.”

“This isn’t funny, Vi.”