Hotline Desires

Four

Bars aren’t usually my scene. Too loud, too crowded, too many people trying too hard to look important. But for Adrian, I make exceptions. He insists whiskey tastes better when someone else pours it for you.

I arrived first, of course. I always do. Punctuality is the easiest way to remind the world you control your own time.

By the time Adrian strolled in, twenty minutes late and grinning like the devil, I was halfway through my first glass.

“You’re early,” he said, sliding into the booth across from me.

“You’re late,” I corrected.

“Semantics.” He waved for a drink. “Anyway, Chloe bailed. Something about her sister, I don’t know. So it’s just the two of us. Romantic, huh?”

I gave him a flat look. “Order your drink before I change my mind about being here.”

He smirked. “God, you’re fun at parties.”

The server brought him a bourbon, and for a few blessed minutes, we drank in silence. Adrian’s the only person I can do that with—share a table without feeling the need to fill the air. But he never lets it last long.

“So,” he began, leaning back, “how’s the empire? Still crushing souls and turning gold out of dust?”

“Quarterly projections are up ten percent,” I said, sipping. “The Westbrook deal closes next week. And if that merger with Lark Industries goes through, I’ll control half the shipping routes on the east coast.”

Adrian whistled. “And yet you still can’t manage to crack a smile.”

“I smiled last quarter,” I deadpanned.

“That was a grimace. There’s a difference.”

I allowed the corner of my mouth to twitch, just to shut him up.

He pointed his glass at me. “See? You’re human after all.”

“Don’t spread that rumor.”

We went back and forth like that—work, jabs, the kind of easy rhythm only built over decades of friendship. Adrian never pushed too hard, and I never gave too much. Balance.

Then, just when I thought he might let me finish the night in peace, he reached into his jacket pocket with exaggerated flair.

“Speaking of balance,” he said, “I brought you a gift.”

I raised a brow. “Unless it’s another vintage bottle, I’m not interested.”

“Oh, it’s better.” He slid a small, glossy card across the table.

I didn’t touch it. Just glanced down.

The words were unmistakable: “Hotline Desires. Call now. Satisfy every craving.”

I stared at him. “You’re joking.”

Adrian laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “Oh, the look on your face. Priceless. Come on, Damian, don’t you think it’s about time you… loosened up a little?”

I pushed the card back toward him. “I don’t need to pay strangers to breathe into a phone for me.”

“Phone s*x isn’t breathing—it’s an art form,” he argued, eyes dancing. “Besides, you don’t have to pay. First call’s usually free.”

“Not interested,” I said firmly.

“You’re impossible.” He picked up the card and waggled it between his fingers. “Just imagine it. You, sitting in that penthouse, brooding with your twelve-hundred-dollar scotch… then a voice on the other end, telling you all the filthy things you’ve been missing. Might do wonders for that permanent scowl.”

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Where the hell did you even get that? You have a girlfriend, remember?”

Adrian barked a laugh. “Relax, I didn’t call it. I was grabbing coffee last week, and the shop had a whole stack of these by the register. Cards for gyms, catering, tutoring—and right in the middle? This one. It practically screamed your name.”

“My name is not synonymous with phone s*x,” I said icily.

“Not yet,” he shot back, grinning.

I finished my whiskey in one swallow. “Remind me why we’re friends.”

“Because I’m the only one who can make you laugh.”

I didn’t laugh. But the twitch at my mouth came back, and he saw it. Of course he saw it.

Adrian downed the last of his bourbon and clapped me on the shoulder like he’d just solved all my problems.

“Think about it,” he said, grinning like a cat with cream. “A voice instead of a face. No strings, no paparazzi, no gold diggers. Just you and your imagination. Could be exactly what you need.”

“I already told you,” I said, tossing a few bills on the table for the check, “not interested.”

He gave me a mock sigh. “You’re allergic to fun.”

“Fun,” I corrected, standing, “is not having to listen to you.”

That earned me another round of laughter. Adrian never minded my barbs. If anything, he collected them.

We left the bar and parted ways, him still smirking, me shaking my head.

By the time I reached my penthouse, the city had settled into its midnight hum—muted lights, the distant thrum of traffic, the kind of silence that reminded you how high above the world you really were.

I peeled off my jacket and set it on the armchair, tugging at my tie. The day’s weight was finally sloughing off when something slipped from the inside pocket and fluttered to the floor.

One card.

Then another.

Then a whole damn stack.

I stared at them, scattered across the polished hardwood like some obscene calling. Hotline Desires. Call now. Satisfaction in seconds.

The bastard.

A low laugh escaped me before I could stop it, rough and disbelieving. Adrian must’ve shoved them in when I wasn’t looking. Typical. Always one step ahead in his ridiculous games.

I crouched down, gathered them in a neat pile, and for a second, considered tossing the whole thing straight into the trash.

That’s what I should’ve done.

But instead, I found myself sliding the stack into the top drawer of my nightstand. Out of sight, out of mind.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

I shut the drawer with a quiet snap, stripped down to nothing, and dropped into bed. The city stretched out in glittering silence beyond the glass walls, but inside, I lay awake longer than I should have, the faintest trace of Adrian’s laughter still echoing in my head.

And beneath it, the whisper of temptation I refused to name.