Our reunion lasts well into the night. Later than it should, considering Zayne is on the early shift tomorrow. But he insists that he doesn’t care. It’ll be worth feeling tired on his feet tomorrow, if he can fuck me senseless tonight. I have to admit, I don’t protest too much.

When we’re finished and I fall asleep in his arms, though, part of me feels almost nervous. This feels too easy, too perfect. Something has to go wrong, throw a wrench into this.

What, you mean besides the mess you’ve already landed yourself in? I think when I wake up the next morning, still tangled in Zayne’s warm, reassuring embrace. The sound of his phone alarm ringing at full volume startled me awake, straight out of a stress dream in which my boss was telling me that she’ll have to make this break permanent and let me go. I’ll have to find a new job, a new career, all with this staining my reputation. If anyone googles me, the first thing they’ll see is this fake sex advertisement with my real tits plastered all over it. How can I ever find a job again if this company won’t keep me?

Yet somehow, even with that stress keeping me up, worry flooding my subconscious dreams, I can’t help but feel reassured with Zayne here. He might be the cause of the problem, but it’s not like he did it on purpose. And he’s going to help me fix it. Nothing could stand in the way of the two of us working it out together—I feel sure of that.

I roll over to kiss his jaw lightly, and he sighs, shifting in his sleep.

“Five more minutes,” he murmurs.

My chest tightens. Something about this, the way it feels so normal and natural to wake up in his arms, is so sweet it’s almost painful. “Zayne.” I nudge him. “Your phone is going off.”

“Five minutes,” he repeats. Then he heaves a sigh and cracks one eyelid to peer at me. “Wait. We changed it last night didn’t we.”

I have a dim memory of around 3:30 in the morning, as he coaxed me into one more romp, his fingers stroking along my mound. “I believe you said I couldn’t let you sleep through this alarm on pain of death and/or dismembering from Paul.”

Zayne groans and levers himself up on one elbow. “I guess a deal’s a deal, then.” He glances over at me, and pouts a little as his gaze drips over my body. “Unfortunately I won’t have time to make you scream for mercy again this morning…”

I laugh and swat his shoulder. He grins and catches my wrist, tugs me forward into a quick kiss.

“But I’ll settle for an IOU.” He winks, and I feel a flush of heat, both in my cheeks and deep in my belly at the promise of another round tonight.

It could always be like this. We could always be like this.

“Zayne…” I swallow hard, unsure where to go with that. I want to tell him what I’m feeling, but it seems so fast, so sudden.

He curls his fingers around mine and lifts my hand to his lips for a slow kiss along my knuckles. “I know, Clove. This is… I didn’t expect this either. But let’s enjoy it as it comes. And as for the rest, the photo…” His face falls, somewhere halfway between sorrow and anger. “I am so sorry for all of it. I’ll find a way to fix it, no matter what it takes. I just… I can’t bear the idea of knowing that I did that to you.”

“You didn’t.” I shake my head, firm and fierce. “Your ex isn’t your fault. We’ll figure it out together. Who knows?” I force a laugh, a carefree expression I don’t really feel. “Maybe the company has already written back to me. Maybe they found the culprit and we won’t need to worry about this anymore. They could get the photo removed from the other website, have it shut down somehow.”

“Maybe.” He smiles too, and though both of us can tell that it’s forced and fake, neither of us wants to admit it. So, we lean in and kiss again, our lips forcing all the emotions we can’t express into that one kiss.

When he leaves, I linger by the doorway staring after him for longer than I care to admit. I feel unmoored, purposeless. Without my job, I’m not sure where I ought to be anymore, what I should be doing with myself right now. I guess just solving his whole photo attack mystery and getting back to my regular routine as quickly as humanly possible.

So, with that thought in mind, I skip cooking breakfast altogether. I normally skip it anyway, but these past few days with Zayne, he’s been cooking for me each morning, and I find myself missing the habit of it, the routine of eating first thing in the morning to wake up my brain before I start to tackle the day ahead.

Who knew so much about you could change so quickly when you meet the right person? With Zayne, I feel like so many missing pieces are clicking into place that it’s hard to keep track of how fast it’s all moving.

But I don’t regret it. I’m loving this ride, crazy as it may be.

Still, today, I decide to forego the breakfast, because I want to get straight to work. I power up my computer, leaving my phone safely shut off so that I don’t see any of the harassing messages. Not yet. I’ll deal with those later, when I have to. For now, I log onto the app’s website and scan my inbox, praying for a response.

But I don’t see any reply with the company header on it. No answer to my long message about what happened to me, about my picture being stolen from this site and used in a horrible attack on a different site.

There are a couple regular messages, a lot of “hey” and “’sup baby” with winking faces. I ignore those.

Then there’s one more message, from a blank profile. The name just says YouShouldKnow. There’s no photo or anything. But it’s the subject of the email itself that catches my eye. Catches my eye, and makes my stomach sink inside me, nerves firing all over again.

About Zayne.

Zayne doesn’t use his real name on his profile. Nobody does on this site. We’ve all learned better by now—me especially, given everything that kicked off this week even without my real name being accessible on this app.

So who is this from, and why are they talking about him?

I click it open and my stomach sinks even farther.

There’s no text in the message. No explanation for what I’m looking at. But it doesn’t take me long to piece it together.

The message contains a series of screenshots. They’re all of one profile, a profile I don’t recognize. MrPlayaZ. But they’re not just public screenshots. It includes private messages, messages to and from that MrPlayaZ account.

And the “playa’s” account itself? It’s all photos I recognize. The same photos that Zayne used in his AtYourService account.

Heart in my throat, I scroll through the other screenshots. There are texts, messages between MrPlayaZ and other women.

Hey baby, love ur pics. I’d like to get that top off you ;)

Worse ones, ones that go back and forth between other girls. My stomach rolls over, and I feel nauseous, looking at the evidence right in front of my eyes.

MrPlayaZ: Last night was amazing, wanna grab a drink again this weekend?

CandyCane: I have to wait that long to feel that sexy tongue of yours again?

Or another.

MrPlayaZ: I can make you come in ways you can’t even imagine, babe.

XtraSaucy: You’re welcome to try anytime you think you can handle this ;)

And more. And more. I scroll through them all, even the longer conversations, full on sexts with women, describing how hard they make him, asking them to finger themselves. Details of how they touch themselves thinking about him. Hell, even one where he talks about jerking off in the back room at work—the same mail room where he touched himself thinking about me this weekend.

That message hits home because it’s dated.

Yesterday.

I want to vomit. The whole room feels like it’s spinning around me.

Frantic, I check Zayne’s regular profile. But the evidence is scrawled across it too. Something I should have noticed, something I was so stupid to miss. The date that any new account is created is listed on the user’s homepage,, mostly so the site can spam you with ads about “giving new members” a chance, hoping you’ll be more likely to match with someone even if they have a lame pickup line.

Right there at the bottom of the AtYourService account is the date it was created.

Friday. The same day he fought off that creeper. The same night we matched and first began to text.

Then to sext, using the same horribly cheesy lines Zayne used to pick up girls on his other profile. His real profile, the one he never told me about.

He was talking about deleting the app the other night. About getting off this site, because he didn’t need it now that he’d found me. But I’d bet anything he was just going to delete this brand-new account, made only to lure me in. He’d keep right on sexting all these other women with his regular account.

I feel nauseous.

I can’t think straight, can’t even formulate a response to this anonymous sender.

I can guess who it is, of course. It has to be the ex that Zayne told me about. The crazy stalker psycho ex-girlfriend trying to ruin his life. But is she?

What if she was just a normal girl trying to save me from getting played? What if this is her trying to spare someone else the same heartache she felt?

Everything hurts.

I slam my laptop shut and storm across my apartment, tears stinging my eyes. My bedroom is the worst place to go because it still smells like us, like him, like sex. I tear the sheets off the bed and crumple them into a tight ball, stuff them into the bottom of my laundry bin. Tomorrow I’ll wash the scent away, wash those sheets until I can’t smell Zayne on them, until I won’t be reminded of him commenting on the bright red color, or grinning as I tied him up using the silky fabric.

Fuck. Maybe I’ll have to throw them away at this rate.

How could I be so stupid?

That’s the refrain echoing in my mind all the while. How could I fall for a playboy like him? How could I think that what we had might be special, might be the something I’ve been waiting for all this time?

Tears sting at my eyes and I head into the shower. Because if the bed still smells like sex, then oh, god, you’d better not catch a whiff of me. I smell like him all over—and part of me loved that, loved the way he left his mark on me, and anytime I caught the scent it reminded me of last night and this weekend all over again. It reminds me of the way he drove his cock deep into me, fucked me hard, senseless, until I came screaming…

Fuck him. Fuck men, all of them.

I turned on the shower, scalding hot, and stepped right into the stream. Buried my face in the water so that when I finally let go and began to cry, my hot tears would blend into the stream rushing over my face.

I hate this. I hate feeling this way again. I thought I’d found someone different at last, but he’s just like all the other assholes in New York City. He didn’t care about me, he just wanted to fuck me. As soon as he got what he wanted, he was probably off chatting up other girls with the same pickup lines, the same stupid lines he used to lure me in and make me fall for him.

I know it’s only been a few days, but somehow our connection felt deeper, more real. Finding out that he’s just like all the other guys I’ve been with—just like that creepy stalker he punched in the face—it feels so much worse than any other shitty date. Because I’d started to actually fall for him. I’d started to actually believe there might be decent guys out there, and that maybe, finally, I’d found one.

Why do guys always do this to me? Why do they always use me, take advantage of me, play with my emotions. And why do they do it to other women to? I bet this ex of Zayne’s isn’t even crazy. I bet she was just a normal girl he seduced and used and jerked around until she got sick of his shit and decided to get even.

My stomach sinks even farther. I just wish she hadn’t decided to get even by posting my naked photo everywhere.

Then again, was that her? What if he’d been lying again? What if that was him… But why?

My head hurts, along with everything else. I can’t take this.

I shut off the shower now that I’ve sufficiently scrubbed myself clean of him. Then I turn my phone off airplane mode and watch with listless eyes as the dozens upon dozens of creepy sexts pour in. I skim past those notifications, keeping my eyes peeled for any messages from my friends.

Nothing yet. But then again, they’re at work, doing their jobs, like normal, productive adults. They’re where I should be. Where I can’t be right now, thanks to this asshole creepfest who I thought actually had feelings for me.

I open our group chat and message them both.

He’s just another NYC asshole player. Should’ve known.

Then I close the window. I can’t even wait for my friends’ replies right now. I’m too exhausted. I fall asleep to the sound of my shower dripping in the distance, and outside, the faint rumble of construction equipment from somewhere up the street. A suitably depressing soundtrack for my suitably depressing life.

* * *

I’m in a hot tub. I’m in a nice bathing suit, tight-fitting, exposed in all the right places. It’s sexy as hell, and I know it. I’m shifting in the water, showing it off for the guy with me. Zayne. His gaze travels over my body, hungry as ever, and I feel a pulse deep inside me that responds to the hunger in his eyes. I want him the way he wants me. I always do.

He beckons me and I curve toward him, unable to move away. I slide right into his arms, and he grabs me, strong and possessive, just the way I like. But that grip shifts. Turns painful as he shoves me away again. Presses me against the side of the hot tub, and leans in to sneer in my ear. “Did you think I found you attractive? You?” He laughs, and when I look down again, everything has changed. The hot tub isn’t a hot tub at all, it’s a mud pit, and I’m dressed in a horrible, ugly, sagging suit, one that exposes all my worst flaws. My stomach sticks out, my thighs are covered in cellulite, and I feel naked in the worst way. Exposed, put on display like a circus freak.

“How could I ever have been attracted to you? Did you honestly think I’d want this body?” Zayne shakes his head and pushes me away, into the mud. I land on my hands and knees and skid away from him. “You’re a slut, Clove. A disgusting, horrible slut. You deserve this. You deserve to be exposed to the world for what you really are.”

There’s some distant part of me, far away and trapped, that rebels against this. That wants to shout at him, No. I’m not. But that part is locked deep down in my subconscious. I can’t unlock it, can’t make myself wake up. All I can do is cry and nod in agreement. Because look at me. I am pathetic. Gross. A slut. He’s right. I deserve this.

I wake up with tears on my cheeks and a pounding ache in my head that won’t subside. I groan and roll over to check my phone, an old habit that I’m going to need to kill fast if this keeps up. Because all I do is open it to find another scroll of texts, another torrent of abuse waiting for me. All those assholes saying the same thing that Zayne said in my dream. I deserve this. I’m disgusting, unattractive, a slut.

Notice how they call me gross and yet too promiscuous in the same sentence. Notice how I’m hot if I might bang them, but gross if I won’t, and if I do bang them, I’m easy and loose and a terrible slut anyway. Can’t win either way. You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

I skip to my text thread, and my heart swells a little at the messages from Andy and Celeste. It’s all supportive, asking if I need to talk and if they can bring me over some wine. I squint at the time and sigh. It’s already 9pm—I slept most of the day away. I’ll probably be up all night sleepless now. And anyway, Andy and Celeste will be home by now or off having an adventure somewhere without me.

Don’t worry about me, guys, I’m fine. Just need some alone time to chill with reruns.

Tell Samantha we say hi, Celeste replies immediately. They know me too well. Sex and the City is always my go-to moping show.

But this time, I don’t even feel like I have the energy to turn that on. Instead, I put on some loud music and lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the last few days in my head.

All I can think about is how stupid I’ve been. How blind.

When the knock first sounds at my door, I ignore it, figuring it must be a delivery guy who got lost on the wrong floor. When it persists, I force myself to roll over and lever my body out of bed. Whoever it is has progressed to ringing the doorbell now, over and over.

I shuffle toward the door, rubbing sleep from my eyes. That’s when I hear his voice.

“Clove? Are you okay?”

My stomach churns, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to double over and heave from the sudden rush of anger, hurt, worry.

But of course, he doesn’t know that someone showed me his other profile. He doesn’t know that I know exactly who he is now. What kind of a lying, sneaking scumbag he is underneath his kind words and the front he puts on for the world.

“No,” I tell the door, arms crossed over my chest. Against my better judgment, I lean down to steal a peek through the spyhole. Of course, he looks as frustratingly, impossibly handsome as ever, dashing in his pressed uniform, hat off and cradled in one hand, his hair messy from being underneath it all day.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and the frown on his face is so sincere, his concern so convincing, that it makes me sick to my stomach all over again.

“Just go away, please.” I force myself to speak loud enough to get through the door. It takes effort. My voice is scratchy from sleep, my throat thick with emotion.

“Clove, talk to me. What’s going on? Did something else happen with the photo?”

“Go. Away. Zayne.”

“Please, just tell me what’s wrong, Clove. Whatever it is, we can talk about it, work through it.”

Almost without thinking about it, I realize that I’ve turned on my phone. Pulled up the app and scrolled to the message. I stare at the images of the texts he’s been sending, the dates stamped across them. I glance back and forth from that damning evidence to the handsome, desperate-looking man outside my door. Is he faking this? Is he this good an actor?

My gaze lands on one message in particular. An exchange with a girl whose username is MissMisMatched. Half of me wants to laughingly appreciate the pun, especially given who she’s talking to.

Zayne’s message to her is the one that sticks in my head. The one that stings. The one that makes me realize this isn’t a joke or a fake.

Trouble sleeping? he asks her. That opens the conversation, which quickly turns to flirty talk of what they’re both doing up so late. (Him: I work the graveyard shift some nights, so I’m always up late looking for intriguing distractions). The words resonate, a little too familiar.

I open up my conversation with Zayne. Scroll up to the top, past all of our sexts and flirty back-and-forths, and even the photo image I sent him that started this whole mess.

I scroll all the way up to the top, and I stare at those two words, written in damning black-and-white on the screen.

Trouble sleeping?

It’s how he first started talking to me. The opener he used after we matched, when I was still trying to figure out how to respond to him. And here he is, just a couple of days later, using that same opener on another girl, after he told me he wanted to delete this app altogether.

“Goodbye, Zayne,” I tell the door loudly.

He protests, calls after me to wait. But as I turn and trudge back to my bedroom, I pause just long enough to turn the volume of my speakers up all the way. Music blasts through my rooms, drowning out his knocks and shouts. Eventually, even the distant faint ring of the doorbell fades away, as I presume he finally gives up on me as a lost cause and heads up to bed.

He’ll get over it. He can find some other girl to string along. Someone else to mess around, while he messes with a few dozen other girls’ heads at the same time. Me, I’m over it.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway, as I crawl into bed and bury myself in the covers. But I’ve already slept a lot today. I know I’m not going to be able to get back to sleep, not for a long while. So I just pull the comforters up around my head and stare at my ceiling, willing time to pass faster. If it does, then maybe this bruise on my heart will heal faster, too.