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DakkyDuck: Why the secrecy, then?

TheRealCreator: I have to be careful.

DakkyDuck: Jeez, Creator. Anybody would think you’re Jackson Cross or something.

A long pause. A minute, then two. I put my phone down next to my laptop and stare at the screen, at the V-shaped muscles that disappear into his sweatpants, at the hard ridges of his abs. I’m getting hot, borderline breathless.

I will myself to calm down. Slow my breaths. Maybe a byproduct of going so long without dating is that now my attraction is going into overdrive.

Or I’m letting myself believe a crazy dream. Maybe this is a clever scammer pretending to be Jackson Cross.

TheRealCreator: If I were Jackson, you’d understand why I couldn’t explicitly tell you over a message.

DakkyDuck: Why’s that? Maybe I’m not as clever as you seem to think.

TheRealCreator: I can’t be seen giving special treatment. Plus, there’s the power imbalance, Dakota. A CEO and a streamer who exclusively plays that CEO’s game… That’s the sort of stuff headlines are made of.

DakkyDuck: Do you think I’m going to run through the streets, singing your name, bragging about this? I just want to know who I’m speaking with.

It’s like I can feel his apprehension through the phone.

DakkyDuck: I know what you’re risking. I could spin this into you being some creepy CEO using your position of power. I get that. But newsflash, stranger. I’m capable of making my own decisions… even if they end up being mistakes.

TheRealCreator: You just said it yourself, Dakota. The reason I have to be cautious. When you called me a stranger.

He’s right. Wearestrangers. But I’m almost certain this is Jackson Cross, and the almost knowing is killing me.

DakkyDuck: Are you going to make me go online and compare your picture with one of Jackson at the beach?

TheRealCreator: Are you sure you can’t conjure those up from memory?

I smile, spreading my hands across my middle.Slow down, Dakota. He’s being evasive. It’s true. But surely hewouldbe evasive if it were Jackson. A scammer might be evasive too though.

He’s right. Those photos of Jackson Cross taken at a private beach, his intense features aimed in an angry glare atthe camera… both middle fingers raised, looking savage and muscular and pissed in a somehow magnetic way.

I search for the pictures, put them side-by-side with the photo that Creator sent me.

DakkyDuck: You both have a small scar at the bottom of your stomach.

TheRealCreator: Lots of people have had appendix operations.

DakkyDuck: So, you’re saying you’re NOT him?

Three dots appear, meaning he’s typing a message, then they vanish. I close my eyes, massaging my forehead. I’m letting this go too far. I’m sounding desperate.

DakkyDuck: You’re probably just some clever computer guy. But now I’ve made it obvious that I want you to be Jackson, so you’ll use your clever-computer-guy skills to send me more Photoshopped images.

TheRealCreator: You want me to be Jackson, huh?

I swallow. Tense. Buzzing all over with energy I can’t control.

DakkyDuck: I’m going now.

I stare at the image, at his hard body, at the quickly but well-drawn hands.

TheRealCreator: Fair enough, beautiful. Just know something before you do. I’m not trying to trick you. And I’d never hurt you.

I close my laptop. Too hard. Probably almost break it. But that’s too much too fast. He’dneverhurt me—meaning there’s aneverin there somewhere. Which means: he needs tochill. And so do I.