The Postman Only Lives Tw1Ce

Dispatch | Apr 20 | 6:27am

Thinking about Tinkerbell has been a guiding light through all the shit I put up with. I had the feeling that if I could get close to her, it would all be worth it. She asked me on the phone while I was in traffic if I had computer access, which I didn’t at the time. I do now.

Typing “Tinkerbell” into Sarah‘s hidden search command didn’t show anything. I tried “tink,” “TINK,” “Tinker-Bell” and every other combination of punctuation and capital letters. She wasn’t part of the system — not under that name.

The number she called me from was still listed in my contacts as Roger’s phone, which he later gave her. I still have that number, but I was nervous about calling it. She might ignore me, or worse, I could end up talking to Roger.

I took another sip of the Cabernet and asked myself what would Casimir do.

I held my breath while the call went through. What if Roger had his phone back? It was too late to back out. The line picked up.

“Winston?” The warmth in her voice melted me. “Hi.”

I breathed again. “I have a computer.”

Apr 21 | 8:00pm

She knocked on my door but opened it before I could answer. Tinkerbell looked just as gorgeous as I remembered her, wearing a furry black coat and a slinky black and white spotted dress, way nicer than my jeans and hand-stenciled shirt. Her head was tilted down so the brim of her wide pink hat blocked everything above her eyes, which were locked on mine with a sharp smile.

“You look…” I couldn’t even finish.

“I know.”

She came around the desk into the view of the camera, and Sarah made a record of her visit.

1ABF48DC - #winston !hasaguest

“It knows I’m here. This is incredible.” The system didn’t know what to call her, but Tink knew what she was doing. She navigated the trackpad with confidence, and I saw her scar again. I forgot about that. It wasn’t there in my fantasies about her. Strange.

She leaned down in concentration, her cleavage a foot from my face, and I smiled. Through the leftover weed smell from Harry’s year in the office, I picked out the rose in her perfume. My heart beat faster.

She caught me staring down the top of her dress and smiled. “Smells like you had a good 4-20 yesterday.”

“No, that’s from when–” I stopped myself. If she didn’t know how long the room smelled like weed, Roger never brought her there, and before that, Harry never used the computer to lure her up to the office for sex, even after he used it to set up our bet. I changed the subject by rolling my chair back and patting my lap. “You want a seat?”

“I guess there’s nowhere else, right?” She ignored the chair on the other side of the desk and talked like a dumb valley girl. I ignored all the clues she wasn’t dumb at all.

My heart was pounding as she lowered herself into my lap. Her ass pressed my boner at a weird angle, but it was worth it.

Her fingers flew over the keyboard. A window I never saw before opened up, and she typed a bunch of words I didn’t understand. That distracted me so much, I didn’t even think to grab her tits.

She stopped and frowned. “Do you have an access code, or anything to get deeper access, sweetie pie?” She swiveled her ass around on my lap.

I breathed hard. I would have given her anything, but I didn’t have that. Then my curiosity pumped a little blood back into my brain. “What are you after?”

She gave a nervous smile and a look at the webcam.

I was over that. I leaned forward and slammed the laptop closed. “It can’t hear us, see or hear. We’re alone.”

She stood up and faced me. She smiled again but only with her mouth. Her eyes were cold, and for the first time, the scar didn’t seem so out of place. She put her hand over mine on the laptop case. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“Because I only care about three things, and two of them are about to fall out of your dress.”

She looked down then gave me another smile, but her eyes were serious. “Well, thank you for the attention, but what’s the other one?”

I opened up my top desk drawer to show her my first bottle in a new collection, the expensive label I was saving for something special. “Bordeaux Malbec?”

He eyebrows raised. “Okay, I have to say, that was a James Bond move.” Her whole face came alive with a genuine smile. That was special occasion enough.

27 min later

“People out there are curious to know what you guys are building.” She was sitting on the desk, next to the computer. Her hat was off, exposing her hair pinned into a tight bun instead of the perfect flowing hair I remembered. It took less than a bottle to start her slurring her words. “There’s plenty of profit in the mutual sharing of information.”

I looked up at her from my chair. “So you’re a spy?”

She smiled. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, it’s awesome.” I was excited and wanted to find common ground. “I’m kind of a spy too.”

She looked down her nose at me. “Who are you working for?”

There was no reason to tell her the instructions from Casimir. “Nobody anymore.”

She gave a long pause. “You’re not trying to play me, are you?”

“No, like you said, information should be shared.”

“Good.” She turned over the bottle and drank the last of the fancy Malbec. She sighed. “I wish this was what real spies did, not that other stuff. It’s so impersonal.”

“Right.” I really didn’t know what she was talking about. “Drinking and stuff.”

She leaned down and grabbed my face, cupping my mouth. “I used to work for Google, you know.” She stared into my eyes, and I was lost. “You know how their motto is ‘don’t be evil?’ That’s no fun at all.” She gave a crazy laugh and held up the empty bottle. “You have any more?” She was perfect.

I opened another desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of the cheap stuff. I held it by the neck and wiggled it like a bell. “Shaken, not stirred.”

She laughed again. I couldn’t stop grinning. I felt like I could do anything, maybe even ask about her scar. I had to see how far the wine would get me.

42 min later

1ABF5919 - #mysteryguest dancing...

She swayed near the corner of the desk to music going in her head, her eyes locked on mine. Her face twisted in an expression of effort, and her balance wobbled, but I didn’t think about catching her. She was going drink for drink with me, teasing me to get information I didn’t have. I kept stalling, but I couldn’t risk snapping her out of it.

I took a pull off our fourth bottle and stared. The wine and her show gave me a tingly feeling, but I saw the drunk look on her and knew I probably looked that way too. I thought about the damage alcohol was doing to both of us.

Then she reached under her dress, and I forgot everything.

Her hands slid lower, down past her hips, still hidden by the fabric. She moved slow, unsteady but seductive. Then her hands were visible, pulling the pink material below the bottom of her dress, inside out panties gripping to the sides of her thighs.

She smiled at me. Then her face twisted again, and she puked on the carpet. She tried to stagger, but her legs were caught, and she fell backwards.

I waited a few seconds, the alcohol numbing my disappointment. I took a deep breath, then another drink. She was out cold, but a pile of empty pizza boxes broke her fall. I could see her tits moving. She’d be fine.

Effective Disorder led a lot of girls in over their heads. We were the chance to stretch their boundaries, the groupies, this Bond girl, or whatever was going on in her mind. It didn’t work if they were unconscious. We’d pile out and disappear to the next town before their walks of shame, but that wasn’t an option with Tink. She was in my office. I decided to take advantage of the situation.

I went through her purse and found the tiny hard drive disguised as a keychain. I put the keys back and put the purse by her body. I am kind of a spy, but I’m no James Bond.

James Bond never had a girl pass out on a pile of old pizza boxes halfway through a seduction. It didn’t occur to me she would be such a lightweight. He also never spent six months wondering whether a girl was really a blonde. It was worth a peek.

There it was, yellow but not quite as blonde as her head. All the time I wanted that golden snatch, thinking it would make all my work feel worth it, but next to the cellulite on her thighs I never would have pictured, it wasn’t the impossible challenge it used to be. It almost didn’t seem like that big a deal.

When I pictured her from far away, there was always this magical quality to her. I sat back at the computer to wait for her stagger to the elevator of shame. The body I dreamed about for so long was lying there, panties around her knees, but I looked her in the face and noticed the artificial pencil outlines of her eyes, the exaggerated color added to her lips and cheeks. The face that looked so perfect in motion was made up. It was obvious when I stopped to look. I tried to picture what she looked like under all that stuff. I still didn’t really know much about her. With her eyes closed, she seemed so young, almost innocent, but I know better than that now.

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