BTT Chapter 1 (The Cali Gul Iluzhan)
Chapter 1: The Cali Gul Iluzhan
It all started with seven simple tiles—and a woman whose own name carried seven powerful letters. Who would’ve imagined that an innocent game of Words With Friends would lead to anything more than a few clever plays and bragging rights? But there she was.
This mysterious beauty whose tiny, unzoomable profile picture taunted me daily.
Why doesn’t this crazy app let us enlarge our opponent’s photo?
And why is she so damn good at this game?
Every morning, just after prayer, I’d log in. The ritual felt sacred—like checking in with a spirit who floated between those digital tiles. I would stare at her miniature photo, trying to imagine her voice. Was it soft? Playful? Did she move in life with the same precision she used on the board?
One morning, after she’d thrown down yet another 40-point word, a message popped up.
“Are you even trying?” she teased.
I laughed out loud.
“Trying? I’m fighting for my life over here.”
“Mmm. Play better then,” she replied, adding a wink emoji.
Her victories piled up, but so did the breadcrumbs she dropped about her life. Married. Mom of three. A Cali native with that effortlessly sexy librarian vibe—the one you secretly crushed on in middle school.
“I’m Starbucks Mocha Macchiato complexed,” she wrote once.
“Five-seven. Medium build. Natural hair. I keep it in Afro puffs when I’m chillin’.”
I stared at her message longer than I should’ve.
“Sounds like somebody knows they’re fine,” I typed back.
“I mean… I don’t not know,” she shot back.
Our games got shorter, but our chats grew longer. Soon I was opening up too.
“I’m 6’3, 277,” I told her. “Dad of one. I’m a Canon shooter—headshots are my thing.”
“Mmm… so you’re tall, artsy, AND you have a good eye?”
“I’ll even shoot you for free if we ever cross paths.”
“Careful,” she typed. “I might hold you to that.”
One night, as we went back and forth, she told me about her three degrees, her Cali life dripping in sun and saltwater, and how the beach was basically her second address.
I joked, “I know everything except your name. I’m tired of calling you Cali girl.”
She responded instantly.
“Silly, you never asked. It’s Iluzhan.”
I stared at the screen.
“Oh my God… what a mighty, majestic name. And it’s seven letters.”
“Your turn,” she prompted.
“Jason,” I said. “Plain ol’ Jason.”
“You don’t seem plain at all,” she replied.
Seven Years Later
Seven whole years.
Seven years of fading interest in the game but a growing inferno for each other.
Seven wasn’t my favorite number—but it was my luckiest.
By the time we decided to turn this digital flirtation into a real-life rendezvous, everything about us felt aligned by fate.
My flight? $777.
Travel time? Seven hours.
Even my seat? Row 7.
When I landed, I dialed her seven-digit number.
“I’ll be there in seven minutes,” she promised.
And she was.
As she pulled up, I froze. Completely stunned. She was more beautiful than any picture, any description, any imagination I ever had. I tossed my seven-pound travel bag in the back seat, and Google Maps announced the hotel was seven miles away.
But five minutes into the ride, she made a sudden turn.
“Uh… Iluzhan, my hotel is the other way.”
“I know,” she said calmly.
“Then why—”
“Because,” she interrupted, eyes sparkling, “I have other plans for your trip.”
We rolled up to a massive, modern home with blades of grass so perfect they could’ve been individually hand-combed. Blackberry-nip roses scented the walkway.
Inside, everything was immaculate—new furniture, perfectly placed décor, family photos everywhere.
“Um… Iluzhan? Why are we at your house?”
She locked the door behind us, her voice a soft, velvety reassurance.
“Because I planned our weekend. The whole house is mine. All mine.”
She paused—
“And for the next few days… all yours.”
A warmth shot through me.
After a brief tour, she said,
“Go freshen up in the guest restroom. I’m going to slip into something more comfortable.”
My heart rate doubled.
When I finished and took a seat on her massive bed, I started reviewing our weekend plans—until she stepped out.
Black.
Fishnet.
Radiant mocha-bronze skin glowing beneath it.
My breath caught.
She walked over, gently took the itinerary from my hands—and ripped it to pieces.
Then she straddled me, slow and sure, locking her eyes with mine.
“Jason…” she whispered, voice dripping with heat,
“You’re mine this weekend. No schedules. No games. No tiles. Just us.”
Her lips brushed my ear.
“The new plan is simple: we stay in this bed for the next 72 hours… exploring each other’s mind, body, and soul.”
And with that, the real game finally began.
