SECTION 10
You open your eyes. It’s bright. Way brighter than your bedroom usually is. And your head hurts. And your sheets are blue.
Wait – since when are your sheets blue?
You hear a shower running and, suddenly, it hits you.
You aren’t at home.
You don’t remember leaving the bar last night, and you certainly don’t remember coming here…wherever here might be.
Oh crap. What have you done?
If you look as bad as you feel, you need to get out of here immediately. You lift the sheet covering your body and are confused. You’re still wearing your clothes. Most of them, anyway – you’re missing your top, but your bra and everything else are right where you left them.
You sit up quickly and regret it. Your head is pounding.
You look around the foreign room and see a garbage bin beside the bed. There’s a glass of water and two aspirin on the nightstand.
The fuck?
You greedily drink the water and will your brain to work. The night comes back to you in chunks. You were at Wrong Bar with Rachel, Nick and his friends. You were having a great time flirting and laughing. You even danced. He even danced.
And you kissed! Often.
Between Ted and Rachel, you always had a drink in your hand. Rachel’s current boy toy, Jessie, showed up. She left with him.
Some wing woman.
You heard the bartender announce last call. And that’s it. That’s all you remember.
“What did I do?” you say, falling back onto the pillow. “Where am I?”
“My place.” Nick is standing in the doorway, wearing a towel below his abs. Or, around his waist. Whatever.
Good lord. Those abs.
“Feeling okay?” he asks.
“Mortified. You?”
“A little hung over when I woke up, but I’m good now.”
“Did we…?”
“No,” he says, a little too emphatically for your liking. Not that you’re not relieved. “You were pretty smashed.”
“And how did I get here?”
“I tried to take you home in a cab, but you kept telling me to take you to the brothel.” There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“The brothel…”
“I think we ended up outside your office.”
You hate yourself.
“I figured it was easier to bring you here,” he says, adjusting the towel.
“The bucket? Please tell me it was just a precaution.”
“I’d be lying.”
“In the cab?”
He winces. “My mother’s front hall rug.”
You close your eyes. “I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I hated that thing.”
“And my shirt?”
“Collateral damage.”
Of course.
“You gave me your bed?” you ask.
“Guest room.”
And then it’s silent.
What do you say when the gorgeous guy you met last night tells you that you’re a drunken menace who destroys carpeting? Got an extra toothbrush?
He speaks first. “Listen, last night was fun, and I hate to rush you out when you’re not feeling well, but… Well, I’ve gotta be somewhere in an hour, so…” he trails off.
“For sure. No problem.”
He leaves for a moment and comes back with one of his tee shirts for you. You retreat to the bathroom, horrified by the raccoon eyes and wild hair that greet you in the mirror. You take a couple of minutes to pull yourself together before your walk of lame. When you exit the bathroom, Nick’s standing in the front hall where you assume the ill-fated rug once lay. You walk to the front door.
“Give me a call sometime?” he asks as you pull on your shoes.
“Yeah, sure,” you say, more to your feet than to him.
He hands you your purse, and before you know it, you’re alone in the hallway outside his apartment.
The hideous floral print lining the walls amplifies your nausea. Then you realize he didn’t give you his phone number. You wonder if he knows that. You’re not going back to ask him.
-END-
Back to SECTION 1 (If you want to try the other option)
