His voice lowered again. “So what kind of underwear, Lola?”
Clearing my throat, I answered, “Nude lace. But I’m not falling for your trap anymore. I don’t know whether you’re serious about phone sex or just making fun of me now.”
He chuckled. “Alright, alright. Tell you what. You want actual phone sex? Call me tomorrow night at this number when you’re sober. If you’re still down for it, we can do it for real.”
The idea of that—phone sex with this deep, raspy voice—awakened the muscles between my legs despite the fact that I said, “No, that won’t be happening.”
“Yeah. Okay. Well, you have my number.”
“Why would I call a guy who’s been nothing but rude to me, for phone sex?”
“Because you’re bored and lonely, remember?”
“Who are you, really?”
“I told you. I’m Silas.”
“You live on Fire Island?”
“Yes. In the summer.”
“Give me a tidbit about you—the real you.”
After a few seconds, he answered, “I have a full sleeve tattoo on my arm. You have my name and a main identifying feature now. There’s your glass slipper. But, baby, believe me, I’m the furthest thing from Cinder-fucking-rella.”Lola“UGH.” I WALKED out front onto the porch with my morning coffee and sat down next to Summer. “We got another email.”
“From the landlord?”
“Yup. We weren’t even playing the music that loud last night, were we?”
Summer chuckled. “Ummm. We weren’t. But you were. Half of the town of Saltaire probably heard you.”
“Me?” Last night was a bit hazy. “I don’t even know how to turn on the house stereo.”
“I know.” She smirked and sipped her coffee. “You were using your phone…to have a dance party in the street, remember?”
Oh shit. A fuzzy recollection of last night started to come back to me. I remembered standing in the street, bent over laughing, holding my shoes in my hands. But I couldn’t for the life of me remember the singing part.
“What does the email say?”
“It’s bizarre. The guy either thinks he’s Dr. Seuss, or he was drunk when he wrote it.”
“What do you mean?”
I held up one finger while I scrolled to the email app on my phone. Digging out the landlord’s message, I read it aloud.Ms. Brookes,Now this here’s a story all about how
You lost your deposit on a rent-al.
And, I’d like to take a minute
Just sit and read.
Clause five got you evicted from a tiny town called Salt-Air.Sincerely,
M.S. BordenWhen I was done, Summer started to crack up. “That’s actually pretty clever.”
“It is? Then I must be missing something.”
“Yeah, part of your memory apparently. Last night…the song you were singing out in the street…was the theme song from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.”
I smiled. “Oh…yeah, that’s right. I love that song. It’s so catchy, isn’t it?”
“It sure is.”
“But what does that have to do with the landlord’s strange email?”
“Read it again, Lo. Only this time…sing it…to the tune of Fresh Prince.”
My brows pulled together, but I did as she said, rereading the email in time to the song.
Now this here’s a story all about how
You lost your deposit on a rent-al.
And, I’d like to take a minute
Just sit and read.
Clause five got you evicted from a tiny town called Salt-Air.
When I was done, I snort laughed. “Oh my God. I guess that means the landlord heard me singing last night?” I looked around at our neighbors. “Does that mean he lives in one of these houses?”
Summer and I silently scoped out the property to the left, then to the right, before finally squinting at the house across the street from us. Nothing seemed unusual at any of the houses. Not that the landlord’s house needed to have a big scarlet L on it or anything—though it felt kind of creepy to think he might be watching us right at this very moment.
A few days after we’d arrived at the beach house, we received the first of a few emails from the guy we’d rented from on VRBO. The first had asked us to stop hanging our beach towels and bikinis over the deck railing, because apparently there was some dumb town ordinance that forbids such a thing. The second email came a week later. We were scolded for mixing the recyclables with the regular garbage. The last one that we received instructed us to stop leaving our bicycles on the front lawn because it ruined the grass. But the address on the bottom of his email wasn’t in the town of Saltaire where our rental was. It was in Ocean Bay Park, an area of the island at least a mile or two away. So we’d assumed the landlord had someone keeping an eye on the house. Although now it seemed more like those eyes might belong to him.
“Well, I guess we should write back and apologize like we did with the other warnings he gave us.” Summer said. “You were kind of loud.”