Sorry Kristi, I can’t make it. You’re on your own.

A wave of panic washed over me as I stood outside the client’s building and read the message from my boss. I was on my own? The only thing I’d done on my own since starting my internship at Goodson, Mitchell, & Price was make the coffee, and everyone had bitched about that.

There’s too much milk.

There’s not enough milk.

I said two teaspoons of sugar, not one.

Leona didn’t even trust interns to take proper notes in meetings, so she always had at least two of us doing it. “That way if one of you fucks up, hopefully the other will have picked up the slack.”

Did I mention how much I was enjoying my summer? At this rate, I couldn’t wait for my final year of college to start. Working sounded great when you were studying for exams at two in the morning, but in reality… yeah, the real world kind of sucked.

I typed out a panicked reply to Leona’s email. If it was possible to hear terror through typed words, then I felt sure my email had that in spades.

Maybe we should call off the meeting and do it another day? I’m not qualified to handle such an important client by myself.

After all, clients didn’t come much more important than Barton Fenner. A first round draft pick, and hotly tipped to be a star quarterback for the next ten years. Plus the media loved him; mainly because he generated headlines. Not always positive headlines, but headlines none the less.

Barton’s agent hired my firm to look after him, and I’d been put on the team. We’d hoped for an easy beginning; Barton wasn’t supposed to be in the first team at all this year, but then, well, the phrase ‘shit hit the fan’ springs to mind.

The team’s first choice quarterback, Milton Pattern, picked up an injury in training and ruled himself out until Christmas. Barton was now the team’s first choice quarterback, and tonight he was celebrating his promotion in the only way he knew how.

I didn’t know jack shit about football, but if Barton was half as entertaining on the field as he was at parties, then he would earn his inflated salary.

Pictures of Barton appeared on social media within minutes of the party kicking off. The pictures were innocent enough at first, but he started getting visibly more and more wasted. The more he drunk, the more skin he showed. The same could also be said of the bimbos draped over him.

Leona had called me on my cell while I’d been sat at home in my pajamas watching television. She insisted we get to the party as soon as possible. An “emergency” as she described it, although I doubted it quite qualified for flashing red and blue light and siren treatment.

I made it to Barton’s apartment within twenty minutes of Leona’s call, but then she had bailed, and left me standing outside by myself. An intern, in charge of the ‘new hotness.’ All I had to do was stop him making an ass of himself at his party. I was basically his babysitter.

A reply from Leona came through.

You’ll have to handle it. We don’t have a choice. Just keep the cameras off him if possible. I have every faith in you.

Oh now she had faith in me. This morning, she’d asked me to tell her the time, and then double-checked my answer.

At least I had a chance to prove myself. That was the main goal of this internship. That, and not fucking up. One of those was likely to happen tonight.

I took a deep breath and counted to ten, before stepping through the front entrance of Barton’s apartment building in downtown San Francisco. The building was unremarkable; I’d walked past it hundreds of times before without giving it a second thought. Now, it was intimidating. This was the building in which Barton Fenner lived and partied. The value of properties here was about to go through the roof.

I walked to the elevator confidently, trying to look like I belonged, and pressed the button for the top floor. I pulled out my phone and looked through the photos on Twitter. In just the last ten minutes, ten new photos had popped up under the hashtag #BartonMVP.

In the latest picture, he had lipstick marks on his cheeks. Give it another hour and he’d have lipstick on other parts of his body.

I heard the music while the elevator was still three floors away from Barton’s. I thought my eardrums were about to explode when the doors slid opened. Barton hadn’t bothered hiring any security to watch the door, which partly explained why so many women off the street had managed to get in and share photos online.

In three years of college, I’d never been to a single frat party. I’d never regretted missing out—until now. If I’d accepted some of the infrequent invites that had come my way, I might have been better prepared for what I saw when I walked inside Barton’s apartment.

Men paraded around in wife-beaters, or with shirts wide open, while the women wore either bikinis or tops that covered roughly the same amount. Sure, it was the middle of summer, but it was San Francisco, for Christ’s sake, not a beach in Los Angeles.

From nowhere, a splash of beer landed on my hand and sleeve, ruining the one expensive outfit I owned. I reserved this suit for client meetings, but I was horrendously overdressed for this one. When I turned in the direction of the beer-spilling culprit, I saw a man pressing a woman up against the wall and kissing her neck, while she moaned loud enough for me to hear it over the music. Then I saw why. He had his hand between her legs, and was furiously working his fingers inside her. Right in the middle of the party. In full view of everyone.

Gross.

The rest of the party almost looked tame by comparison. Almost. Guys and girls, or quite often girls and girls, drank shots from each other’s bodies without any regard to the mess they were making. I pitied the poor cleaner who had to tidy up after this bunch in the morning.

“Damn, girl, who let you walk around fully clothed?”

An arm appeared from behind me and grabbed me around the stomach. I smelt cheap beer, as he leaned in and pressed his groin against my ass.

“Get off me,” I snarled, using both hands to push his arm away.

“Alright, calm down, sweetheart. You need to get a drink into you. A stiff drink and a stiff—”

“Leave her alone, Doug,” another man said, appearing alongside me.

“Whatever, man,” Doug muttered as he disappeared.

“Sorry about him,” the man said. “Had too much to drink. Much like everyone else here. My name’s Clyde.”

I shook Clyde’s hand as if we were at a respectable business meeting instead of in the middle of a party fit for the last days of Rome.

“Nice to meet you Clyde. I’m Kristi.” He carried an air of authority and confidence about him, even though he was smaller than nearly everyone here. I knew that not all football players were big, but this guy looked more like he might be Barton’s accountant than his teammate.

“You looking for Barton?” Clyde asked. I nodded. “You his image consultant?”

“Yes,” I replied. Perhaps that was a bit of a white lie, but ‘intern’ was never a word that conveyed confidence to clients. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t; it was more out of hope than anything. You’ve arrived not a moment too soon. He’s in the kitchen making drinks.” Clyde pointed towards the far corner of the apartment.

“Thanks.”

“No, thank you. If you can get him through this night, you’re a hero in my book.”

I pushed my way through couples kissing, grinding up against each other, and doing God only knows what else, until I made my way to the kitchen.

Clyde was right; I’d come just in time.

Barton stood by the refrigerator, completely shirtless, and surrounded by a flock of eager young women, all desperate to get their faces in a selfie with the soon to be legendary quarterback. Selfies that would soon appear online.

Barton didn’t seem bothered by the attention. He smiled for the photos, and freely grabbed a handful of each girl’s ass as they posed for their photo.

“Barton Fenner?” I called out.

Barton ignored me and so did all the girls. One of them spilled her drink down Barton’s chest, and quickly started licking it off to jealous looks from all the other women.

I shuffled awkwardly, as I realized that I’d been staring at his chest for a little too long, and now some of the other women were starting to notice me. I did stand out somewhat. I wore more clothing than the five women in the kitchen combined.

Two of the women stood either side of Barton, and leaned in to lick his cheeks, while another girl took a photo. This is what I had to deal with. This was the man I had to keep under control.

Barton wasn’t the type of man who would be bossed around by an intern. Or anyone for that matter. This might be a long summer.