At the Irish Exit, I sit at the table with Ashley and Kathy, sipping a bourbon, my fav drink. Which, I’ll admit, is a little strange. In the middle of Stone’s explanation of his alcoholism and experimental drug use, it didn’t seem like the appropriate time to pop in with, “Bourbon is my favorite drink too!” even if it's true. I’ll be honest, the coincidence seems … well, a little coincidental. I didn’t want him to think I was some sort of weird groupie who just claims to love something ‘cause he does, know what I mean?

But seriously, bourbon is the best. I can’t imagine taking a pill that would make me not want to drink it. That’d just be tragic. Giving up drinking would be tragic. 

I stare down at my bourbon, ignoring the conversation around me. Some awful band is up on the stage, wailing about lost love, and I ignore them too, even when they hit a particularly bad note. Okay, so maybe I hear those, despite my best intentions. But seriously, is it weird for me to be mooning over some guy who I only fucked once? And, who doesn’t even remember it happening? I need to get over it already but …

I don’t want to. And that’s really weird for me. I’m the queen of fuck ‘em and leave ‘em. But this time? I don’t want to leave.

I let out a gusty sigh that can probably be heard in China. God, I’m a mess.

“You seem really upset,” Kathy says, patting my hand consolingly. “Are you okay? You’ve hardly said a word tonight.”

So much for suffering in silence. Let’s be honest here—I’ve never been good at that one. “It’s Stone,” I admit. Ashley’s eyebrows shoot to her hairline at that. I haven’t turned in my article on our interview yet, and we haven’t had a chance to chat. And, quite frankly, Ashley likes being in the know so I’m pretty sure she’s been dying to ask me all night what happened in the interview.

There’s a reason she works at a gossip magazine …

“What happened?” she asks breathlessly, leaning forward with anticipation. 

Have I mentioned yet that she likes to be in the know? ‘Cause she does.

I open up my mouth to respond to her when I notice that the band is finally packing up and moving off stage. Thank God, I can finally think again, without their off-key wailing reverberating in my ears. I remind myself to give the bartender an extra-large tip. To put up with these shitty bands coming through has got to be a hellacious job. I thought my job at Blush was tough sometimes, but at least I don’t have anyone caterwauling in my ears all day long.

My eyes flick back to Ashley’s. Truth time.

“Well, it-turns-out-that-I-had-sleep-sex-with-him,” I blurt out. 

“You what?!” they say in unison, eyes as big as saucers. 

Are they practicing this in the mirror or something? It’s kinda creepy, really. 

“He’s on this experimental drug,” I say miserably, “and it means that he sometimes does shit without remembering it afterward. Like, fucking me.” 

“Oooohhhhh …” Ashley says, “I thought you meant that you were asleep for it, but he was? Kinky.” She grins an unrepentantly sexy grin, and I roll my eyes. I just know that tonight, Ashley is going to ask Apollo to role-play being asleep while she gives him a blowjob. 

Not that Apollo is going to mind…

“Are you sure he doesn’t remember it?” Kathy asks skeptically. 

I shrug. “I haven’t seen or talked to him since then, so I guess I don’t know for sure, but when I was there, it was believable to me. He took this pill and then got all weird on me. I don’t know. I guess I need to talk to him again and really test him. See if I can trip him up. I could ask him, ‘So, have you fucked any hot chicks named Gisele lately?’ See if he gets all weird on me.” I laugh. Quite frankly, the more I drink, the funnier I am … to me.

But hey, I’m the only one who matters, right?

“Well, now you have your chance,” Kathy says, jerking her head toward the door.

My laughter abruptly stops and I swivel toward the door.

Stone Slayer is walking through the door right now.

I jerk back around and just stare at Ashley and Kathy. I know that like, five minutes ago, I was whining about wanting to see him again, but that was in the hypothetical sense. Of course I want to see him again sometime soon.

But … but this is real, and suddenly? Seeing Stone Slayer in person is turning me into a ball of nerves. 

Have I mentioned that I don’t do second dates? Second fucks? Second chances? Because I don’t. Seeing a guy again after I’ve ridden his cock seven ways to Sunday just isn’t something I do.

But now, looking at him as he makes his way to the now-empty stage, I realize that I just might want to with this one.

And that’s the most terrifying thing I’ve thought all year.