Free Quirks & Kinks by Laurel Ulen Curtis Page A

with the pull to stay, but in the end only an uncomfortable handshake won.
    “So, um, I’ll text you directions and stuff,” I babbled, turning quickly and stumbling in the sand as I tried to make a quick getaway.
    Change is always hard, but if the transition from skilled speaker to mumbling idiot was a permanent one, I was going to have to commit myself. It had only been a few days of living like this, and I was already beyond sick of it.
    “What’s your number?” he called after me. “I’ll text you mine.”
    Right. A number. That’d be helpful.
    As I walked back toward him to avoid yelling my number across the beach, I moaned. Giving into my desire to be close to him felt too satisfying, and I didn’t like not being in control of it. Something about him sucked me in. I hadn’t figured out which part it was, but I was pretty sure he was hiding magnets in those bumps he was pretending were abs. When I launched my formal investigation, I planned to start there.
    “Sorry,” I mumbled when I got back within range. “I forgot.”
    He smiled and shrugged, but neither one of us said anything.
    Of course, I was the one who was supposed to be saying something.
    “And?” he prompted when I didn’t snap out of it fast enough.
    Fuck. Stop thinking about abs, Easie. Like, for real.
    “It’s 213–418–8487.”
    “Eight, four, eight, seven?” he asked, reciting the last four digits to confirm.
    “Yep.”
    “Was it by any chance a guy who assigned your number to you when you got it?”
    “Assigned my number?”
    “Yeah. When you first got the phone, did a guy help you?”
    Thinking back more than five years into the past was seriously not my strong suit. “Um, yeah. I mean, I think. It was a while ago. Why?”
    “Because the last four digits of your number spell tits.”
    Flicking my cigarette to the sand below, I stepped back again, turning to leave and refusing to look back. Knowing his mind had picked something like that up on the fly had too many conflicting thoughts fighting for supremacy in my brain, and the chaos that ensued had it threatening to explode. The only logical thing to do was ignore him.
    He chuckled behind me, calling out, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and at the sound of his voice, my resolve to avoid looking back crumbled.
    Leaning casually into his board stuck standing in the sand, a smirk lit his face and my discarded butt graced his hand. Twirling it mindlessly, he watched as I walked away.
    By the time I climbed into my Honda and slumped into the seat with fatigue, the screen of my phone lit up with a message from an unknown number.
    Don’t worry, Litterbug. I’ll clean up after you . . . this time. See you tomorrow.

BY THE TIME ASHLEY and I walked into the studio the next morning, my system was experiencing caffeine and nicotine overload. Fidgeting, rolling bouts of nausea, and the occasional stench permeation from the pores of my saturated skin.
    Sleep had proven elusive, the threat of the day to come shining like a spotlight directly into my brain.
    For the first two hours, I tossed and turned and worried about how I would get along with Anderson. Namely, if I would get along with him too well.
    But when two hours of lying awake turned into three, I realized that the previous two hours of nerves had been wasted. Anderson hadn’t even agreed to do the fucking show yet. So, for an entire hour, I nagged myself about my needless nagging.
    By the time I’d been awake for a full three hours, I gave up on the prospect of bed and channeled all of my energy into smoking. The night air of my balcony had a chill, but instead of taking that as a sign that I should ease up on my lungs, I strapped on a coat and slippers and lit up again.
    Chain smoking, for as bad as it was for my health and odor, did its job as intended and allowed my brain to rest from three o’clock to four.
    Four o’clock seemed too late for sleeping. So, I didn’t.
    I did manage a lingering, hot shower and about