We look forward to receiving your monthly payment on the 15th.
American Express
I screamed bloody murder as I read their response.
I’d been so immersed in my soul-crushing internship and falling in love with my study partner, Dave, that I hadn’t opened my credit card statements in months. Besides, all I ever charged were Ramen noodles, sweatshirts, and Kindle Unlimited.
Okay, maybe an occasional erotic audiobook as well, but that was it.
It wasn’t until the card was declined at the dollar store this week that I realized something was amiss.
Feeling defeated, I called my best friend, Chelsea.
“Hello to the ‘most massive of massive’ best friends,” she answered on the first ring.
“You really have to stop using that phrase, Chels,” I said. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“In that case, hello to the bestie who got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m calling because I need a raincheck on Girls’ Night with you and Farrah tonight.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I’m already at my limit, thanks to the sneaky bastard who keeps using my credit card. I’ll have to cancel the account today and hope they won’t send me to collections.”
“I’m so sorry.” She sighed. “Wait, you know what? There was this guy in my tech class who used to do some black-hat stuff to dox scam artists for fun. If you send me a picture of your statement, I’ll text your number to him and ask if he can figure out something.”
“Yes, please.” I snapped a picture and sent it to her. “Thank you so much.”
“No problem,” she said. “He typically takes a week to get back to people, so be patient. In the meantime, do you want me to bring you parmesan chicken or parmesan pasta back from the bar?”
“Parmesan pasta.”
“Will do.” She ended the call, and I cranked my engine.
Before I could pull out of the parking lot, a text from an unknown number popped onto my screen.
555-976-9087: Seriously? This was easy. You could’ve doxed this guy’s IP address yourself: 786 University Avenue Wayward Dorm, West Campus.
555-976-9087: If you cash app me an extra $50, I’ll give you the guy’s name. Send me a tit pic, and I’ll discount it to $30.
I rolled my eyes. I didn’t need him to give me anything else.
I already knew who lived at that address.
Chelsea’s ‘I don’t talk to anyone in the family anymore’ younger brother, Tyler.
What the hell?
True Crime
Harlow
I stepped off the elevator at the all-boys dorm of Main College, inhaling the heavy scent of pizza and alcohol.
From memory, I headed to the room where I’d helped Tyler move years ago. I couldn’t help but wonder why the hell he was still a freshman and how I wanted to address his fraud.
As a loner, he’d always been aloof and non-confrontational—which made sense as to why he was paying for his cock’s pleasure—but still ... This theft was unacceptable.
My best options were crystal clear: Be an understanding ally who lets him admit his wrongs first, be the mature adult who offers him a payment plan, or rip off his head and hide the body.
Choosing the first option, I knocked on his door and waited.
No answer.
I knocked again. A little louder this time.
Nothing.
I turned to walk away, but the theme song from the Friends sitcom played from inside.
“Open this damn door, Tyler!” I banged on the wood harder than ever. “I know you’re in there! Open it right now!”
The sound of furniture scraping the floor came next, and then the door opened.
“How many times do I need to—” The sentence stalled on my lips as he stepped into the doorway wearing nothing but a white towel around his waist.
My jaw unhinged as his eyes met mine, and I sucked in a slow, unsteady breath.
This man was not the “boy” who I helped to drop off years ago. Either he was a made-over imposter, or my eyes were playing one hell of a trick on me.
This man was sexy as fuck.
The unruly, dark hair that once fell too far past his shoulders was now replaced with neatly trimmed locks that any woman would want to run her fingers through.
His stunning dark green eyes weren’t hiding behind oversized glasses, and there was a black quote tattoo on his chest where a playground scar used to be.
“Accept what is, let go of what was, and have faith in what will be.”
As water droplets traveled from his chest to his abs, I knew without a doubt that his days of wearing baggy sweatshirts were long gone.
I’d always thought he was “passably cute” whenever I came over to hang with Chelsea, but that description was officially out of date. He was the sexiest man I’d ever seen, and the competition—even my current boyfriend, wasn’t anywhere close.
“Hello, Harlow,” he said, his voice deep.
“Hello, Thief.” I snapped out of my trance.