A delivery truck honked its horn, and my hands jerked the handlebars of my bike a little, causing the wheels to roll over a bumpy section of pavement. My body shook from the vibrations, and I silently cursed the man driving the monstrosity on tires.
Midday traffic in San Francisco was a real bitch sometimes. Hence, one of the reasons I was on the bike in the first place. The other reason was that I was the kind of weird you couldn’t learn. Nope, like it or not, I was born this way.
I slipped my hand into the side pocket of my cutoff jean shorts and tapped the volume button a few times to drown out the annoying sounds of people in a rush to get somewhere they probably didn’t want to be.
The last time I had driven a car, I was eighteen, and it was my dad’s old Astrovan. With its maroon paint, sliding doors, and spacious back seat, that van was a goddamn relic. It was a sad day in the Sexton house when my dad had to send Delilah—that was her name—off to the junkyard because she had turned her very last mile.
Unfortunately, her aging process worked the opposite of wine. But in her prime, she had taken us on vacations all over the West Coast. I loved that big-ass van. She had been a part of the family, and after she died, I made a promise to myself that I’d never own a vehicle unless I knew it was The One.
It’s safe to say, I have an unhealthy penchant for attachments to inanimate objects. Not in a kinky way where I had the urge to fuck my microwave. But for as long as I could remember, I’d named all the material things I loved. In Delilah’s case, I’d considered her to be another sister. Hell, some days, I’d loved her more than my blood-related sister—probably still would if she were still burning up the road.
Why am I telling you about Delilah?
Well, in a roundabout way, it has prepared you to hear about my bike. Brace yourself because this girl is what makes my heart beat faster.
Daisy was a true beauty. With her pretty white frame, her bright pink wheels, and her convenient metal basket hanging off the handlebars, she was what little girl bike dreams were made of.
Besides walking, taking the bus, or catching a cab, Daisy was my sole means of transportation. She was also the absolute apple of my eye.
I mean, if you owned a car in the city, most days you were five minutes away from selling your soul to the devil just to find a parking spot. But Daisy—we might hit a couple bumps in the road, but she never let me down.
BØRNS was just starting to serenade my ears with “Holy Ghost” when I finally reached the San Francisco Times’ offices. If I weren’t supposed to attend an important, last-minute meeting, I might’ve just said fuck it, got back on my bike, and pedaled around the city—a less busy part, of course—and enjoyed one of my favorite albums of all time.
But I didn’t have that option today. Joe had woken me up with an eight a.m. phone call to summon me for a powwow.
So, like the good little employee I was—well, I tried really hard to be…most days—I parked my bike inside the bike rack, locked it, and headed through the entrance of my place of employment.
Although I did my very best to avoid these offices, I occasionally had to attend team meetings and monthly in-person chats with my editor, which were mostly nonsense created for the sole purpose of annoying me.
I just preferred to do my work from home, or at my favorite diner, or coffee shop, etc, etc, etc. I had a long list of places I loved to work, but these offices were certainly not one of them. I was not one with them, but they weren’t one with me either.
One month after they had hired me to write Sex Says, I had driven Joe to the point of insanity with my inability to stay seated for more than fifteen minutes. After watching me skip to get coffee, tap dance to the bathroom, and twirl to the break room one too many times, he had decided it would be best for everyone if I worked from home.
In my humble opinion, besides hiring my eccentric ass, it was the best damn decision he had ever made.
It should be noted that I wasn’t always an expert in the world of sex, dating, and relationships. To say I was a bit of an awkward late bloomer—cough, nerd—would’ve been an understatement. A plastic banana ripens faster than I had blossomed into an actual woman.
While my fellow horny teenage classmates were going to dances and boning like bunnies, I coddled in my womb of unconventional nerddom. Anyone who had the opportunity to go into my parents’ garage and find my Pandora’s box of teenage embarrassment would understand what I meant. Gilmore Girls DVDs, Harry Potter—the books and memorabilia, not the actual wizard—Danielle Steele novels, and trophies from my high school bowling team made up about half of the contents. The other half I refuse to talk about.
Yeah. Tame your boners, boys.
Although, I had to say, my glittery pink bowling shoes and matching ball were still something to be proud of.
My first kiss didn’t occur until I was a junior in high school, and my first experience with sex happened when I was nineteen. It was terrible, in the back of my then-boyfriend’s van, and if there would’ve been a lava lamp, it could’ve easily passed as an actual nightmare.
Eventually, after a few long and bumpy roads of self-discovery, I had bloomed and blossomed and gained a better understanding of sexual exploration, healthy relationships, and how to navigate the dating world.
My early twenties had been filled with bizarre dating situations, one-night stands, several failed relationships, and a personal blog on Wattpad where I shared all of my love woes, no matter how embarrassing or absurd.
And by some stroke of luck, my ridiculous yet oftentimes hilarious dating and relationship stories and love anecdotes had gained some attention. By the time my blog had over 300,000 followers, I had received a call from the San Francisco Times, and voila, Sex Says was born.
I’m sure none of this comes as a surprise.
I mean, I ride around San Francisco on a bike named Daisy.
It’s safe to say I’ve still got a little bit of geek in me.
I stepped onto the elevator and rode up four stories. My Converse tapped across the hardwood floor of the hallway until I reached the conference room Joe preferred. For a guy whose office was a throwback into a seventies time machine, he was such a weirdo when it came to the aesthetics of pretty much everything else.
He refused to use the conference room on the third floor because he said the walls were too white. Cue my slow blink—I honestly had no idea that was a thing. I thought white was just that—white.
He also refused to eat lunch at this kitschy, fifties-themed diner on Market Street because he claimed they were trying to blind him with their ambient lighting.
Personally, I didn’t care how bright the restaurant’s lights were. Their bacon cheeseburger and double chocolate milk shake tasted like they were made in heaven, on the actual cloud nine. If my eyesight were the price, I’d pay it.
My eyebrows rose in curiosity when I reached the glass-lined walls that looked into the conference room. Only Joe and Miranda, one of my fellow columnists, were sitting inside.
That was odd. Generally, Joe didn’t call a meeting unless all of his staff was involved. Efficiency and all that jazz.
I wrapped my fingers around the cold silver metal of the handle and pulled it open. As I walked into the eerily empty conference room, neither of them glanced up to note my arrival. Instead, they sat hunched around her laptop, perusing something intently.
Miranda pointed toward the screen, and Joe grinned, a soft chuckle falling off his lips with ease.
“Uh…hey, guys,” I announced.
Both of their eyes went wide, and Miranda quickly shut her laptop.
“Hey, honey,” Miranda greeted. “How was Daisy on the ride in?”
I ignored her question. “What were you guys looking at?”
“Facebook,” Miranda said.
“Twitter,” Joe also said, at the same time.
I raised an eyebrow as I sat down in the black leather chair beside Miranda. “You guys are acting strange.”
“Strange?” Miranda asked in a pitchy voice, and then she forced a fake laugh. “I’m not acting strange. Are you acting strange, Joe?”
“Nope,” Joe said and cleared his throat. “I’m not strange.”
I pointed an accusing finger in Joe’s direction. “You’re always strange.”
He pointed back at me with a teasing smirk. “Like you should talk. You ride a bike instead of driving a car like a normal adult, and when you come to meetings, you dress like that.”
I glanced down at my attire and then looked back at him, holding both arms out. “What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?”
“Lola, I adore you,” he started. “But look at how Miranda’s dressed, and then look at how you’re dressed.”
My face scrunched up in annoyance. I didn’t even have to look at Miranda to know she was most likely wearing heels, an A-line skirt, a silk blouse, and a sleek jacket or sweater. It was her go-to workplace appropriate outfit. She must’ve had twenty different versions of that very outfit, just different colors and patterns.
“Just because she sticks to the business dress code like she works for Human Resources doesn’t mean I have to do the same,” I retorted.
Miranda scoffed, “Hey, I look fabulous.”
Joe laughed. “Lola, honey, you’re so far from sticking to the office dress code it’s not even funny.”
I stared back at him in annoyance, but he just continued on.
“Pigtails, cutoff jean shorts, gym shoes, and your tank top says ‘Tacos.’” He ticked off the items that made up today’s outfit. “It literally just says ‘Tacos.’”
“So what? I like tacos.” I shrugged. “And these aren’t gym shoes, Joe. They’re Converse.”
He grinned. “Appropriate office attire is still a pointless conversation with you, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “Pretty much.”
“I honestly think you might be the weirdest, yet most likable employee I’ve ever had.”
“I’m not that eccentric.”
Miranda laughed. “Last team meeting, you wore roller skates.”
“They were my transportation!”
“You never took them off,” Miranda added. “You had them on the entire meeting, and Joe continually had to ask you to stop skating around the table.”
“First of all—” I held up my index finger “—they’re new and San Francisco has a lot of hills, so I was utilizing Joe’s rambling time wisely by getting in some roller skating practice. And, secondly—” I added another finger “—it was the only way for me to stay awake. And I wasn’t the only one suffering. Mike from accounting was two blinks away from falling into a coma.”
“I was not rambling,” Joe muttered.
“Yeah, you were,” Miranda said and I nodded.
He narrowed his eyes at both of us. “I don’t ramble.”
“Last week, while you were on the phone with your wife, she actually called your assistant, while still on the phone with you, and asked your assistant to tell you that you were needed in a meeting,” Miranda retorted. “Even your wife tries to escape your rambling.”
He raised both hands in the air. “All right, enough with the patronizing of the boss. Let’s get to the actual point of this meeting so I can call my wife and let her know her little assistant trick will not work on me again.” He half smirked and shook his head.
“Fantastic idea, Joe,” I agreed. “I’d really love to know what the point of this meeting actually is.”
“Well,” he said and glanced at Miranda. “Would you like to take the lead on this one?”
She laughed and shook her head. “Yeah… No. This is why you have that cushy office. Because you get to deal with these kinds of things.”
“What kinds of things?” I asked and looked back and forth between them. When no one responded, I knew Joe was trying to push something off on Miranda. She was his favorite professional buffer.
The last time she’d played this role, we’d ended up with one less columnist on our team…
My eyes went wide. “Oh. My. God. Are you firing me?” I stood up from my chair in absolute shock. “Holy shit! You called me down here to fire me?” I shrieked.
“Jesus.” Joe’s hands went to his ears. “Your column is a favorite among our female readers. You’re not getting fired. So please do me a favor and avoid making that sound for the rest of my life.”
I looked at Joe and then at Miranda. “Okay, so then, what’s going on?”
“Have you happened to go online at all today? Like, Facebook…Twitter…YouTube?” Miranda asked.
I shook my head.
“Sit back down,” Joe instructed, and surprisingly, I listened. He flipped Miranda’s laptop back open and tapped the keyboard a few times. “So, this YouTube video has gone viral, and it’s well… Just watch it first.” He turned the screen toward me, and I was faced with a guy, smoking a cigarette and talking directly to the camera.
Holy hell. Who the fuck is this guy?
I mean, I was pretty sure he was talking…speaking words…something along those lines, but I was focused on his face.
Vivid blue eyes.
Firm jawline.
Dimples in his cheeks that appeared when he flashed a sexy little half smirk.
Seriously, he was really, really good-looking.
He was one of those guys that every woman would do a double take just to believe he was real. Lucky for me, no double take was needed here. I could continue to stare at him like a creeper, and he would be none the wiser. I honestly had no idea why Joe and Miranda wanted me to watch this guy’s YouTube video, but why question motives that led to eye candy like this?
He glanced down at the newspaper in front of him. “Sex Says…The byline reads Lola Sexton…” His insanely blue eyes looked at the screen again. “…and if you are, in fact, a real person, Miss Sexton, I entreat you.”
It took a few seconds for his words to register in my brain, but when they did, my eyes went wide and I looked at Joe. “Wait…what? Did he just mention my column?” And when he started into some diatribe about me dictating to my readers, I stopped gawking at his stupid looks and started to get really pissed off.
“Is he bashing my fucking column?!” I shrieked.
Joe winced. “Apparently, this guy isn’t a fan of your column.”
I mean, I didn’t expect everyone to love my column, but I also didn’t expect someone to so blatantly call me out when they had a differing opinion.
What in the fuck was this guy’s problem?
This had to be the biggest asshole move I’d ever witnessed in my life.
Fuck this guy. I didn’t care how good-looking he was. He could take his blue eyes and cocky smile and shove them straight up his ass.
“What the hell?” I muttered as I continued to hear the bullshit spew from the dickhead’s mouth. “He hates my column so much that he made a YouTube video about how much he hates it?” I shrieked again, and Joe covered his ears this time.
I jumped up from my seat, knocking the leather chair my ass was resting on to the ground, but my eyes stayed fixated on the screen. “You’re an asshole!” I shouted and pointed at the screen. “No, not just an asshole, you’re a fucking asshole!”
But he couldn’t hear me, obviously, and just continued talking until he brought his hate parade on home with the last words, “And Reed This, Sex Says: There’s someone out there for everyone, but good luck finding the right person for you when you’re pretending to be someone else.”
“What in the fuck did I just watch?” I glanced at Joe and then at Miranda. “I mean…seriously… What was that?”
“Well…if it makes you feel any better, he managed to bring a lot of publicity to your column. My phone’s been ringing off the hook all day,” Joe updated.
My eyes narrowed. “How did this stupid video bring publicity?”
Instead of answering the question with words, Joe showed me with the cursor of the mouse, slowly dragging it across the screen until it rested below…
3,456,798 views
My jaw dropped to the floor. “This video has over three million views? When was this posted?”
“Apparently, he just posted it last night.”
“It hasn’t even been live for twenty-four hours, and it already has over three million views?”
It was safe to say calm was a memory. Joe covered his ears again, and Miranda grimaced.
“This isn’t bad news, Lola,” Joe said, and I glared at him. “It isn’t,” he repeated. “This guy’s video just brought a national spotlight to your column.”
“By basically telling the world he thinks I’m an idiot!”
“I know this doesn’t feel good, but I’m telling you, Lola, this is actually good. There are interviewers, newspapers, TV stations…” He started to explain, but I couldn’t listen to his words. I was too fired up.
“What’s this guy’s name?” I cut him off midsentence.
“Reed Luca,” Miranda chimed in.
I stomped toward the door, and Joe called to me, “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to find this asshole.”
“Lola! I don’t think—”
Those were the last words I heard before the door to the conference room slammed shut behind me. I was a woman on a mission, heading straight for the elevator, and then to the front stairs, and then outside to unlock Daisy.
I hopped on my bike and pedaled as fast as I could until I realized I was actually heading in an unknown direction and I had absolutely no strategy when it came to finding the know-it-all, asshole vlogger.
Shit. Sometimes, I was too impulsive for my own, rational good.
My phone pinged with a text notification, and I pulled it out of my pocket to read a text from Joe.
The Devil: For the love of God, do not kill him.
Me: What’s his phone number? Email address?
The Devil: I don’t know.
Me: Joe… I know you well enough to know you probably have this guy’s home address by now. And if you don’t give me something, I will stalk this bastard on every form of social media until I find him.
The Devil: Lola, you need to remember that you are the face of a column for the San Francisco Times. And anything you do will reflect back onto the paper.
Me: I promise I won’t kill him.
Joe texted me the asshole’s email address a minute later. And fifteen minutes after that, I was in my apartment and sitting in front of my laptop ready to give this guy a piece of my mind.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
Subject: Hello, Asshole
FUCK YOU
FUCK YOU
FUCK YOU
FUCK YOU
FUCK YOU
You are an asshole. Name the time and place and I will meet you there and I will kick your ass.
I paused after that last sentence.
Jesus. I sound like a middle school boy ready to brawl outside the schoolyard.
I had to take a different approach to this email. I mean, for one, telling this guy I wanted to kick his ass was a bit ridiculous. And two, the fact that I would be riding to that fictional fight on my bicycle that had pink wheels and a basket didn’t scream intimidation. And three, I actually wanted to meet this guy. I wanted to speak to him face-to-face, where he couldn’t hide behind a goddamn camera.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
I had to be professional about this. As much as I wanted to tell this guy to choke on his own penis, I had to take the high road. And then, when I got to chat with him in person, I could tell him off with that whole penis-choking scenario.
Good fucking idea, Lola.
To: Reed Luca
From: Lola Sexton
Subject: I saw your video…
Hello Reed,
I hope you are having a pleasant day. I saw your YouTube video directed at my column, and I would love to discuss your opinions further.
Would you be willing to meet up sometime this week?
Sincerely,
Lola Sexton