Kat
My mouth opens and closes, tasting my cotton tongue. My throat feels like a desert. I open my eyes and look around. So much for not staying out late. Thanks a lot, Devin. I push the beefy naked dude sleeping next to me. What the fuck is his name . . .? Vinnie! Pretty sure it was Vinnie. Or maybe it was Victor . . .
“Dude. You promised me a ride today.” Not only did I go home with some nameless, roided-out freak I met in a bar, but I don’t even have my car to make a nice, easy escape. My mom is right—I do make poor decisions.
I get out of bed and walk around, looking for a bathroom. This guy’s apartment is horrifying. A punching bag hangs in the corner where a dining table should be, and a leaning tower of pizza boxes is piled high in the kitchen. I need to find a bar with wealthier patrons.
My bag is wedged between the cushions of a beer-stained couch, and I pray I don’t get a staph infection from the filthy carpet. I can’t believe I was naked in this crack den. This is almost worse than waking up in jail. But at least the guy is hot. That helps.
The bathroom light flickers before illuminating the room in a dim, orange glow. Either the toilet is broken, or this guy subscribes to the If It’s Yellow, Let It Mellow rule. Fucking foul. I flush the toilet with my foot then hover over it to do my business. If I wasn’t so busy sticking my tongue down Beef Dude’s throat, I might have noticed this shit last night and bailed early.
I throw a towel down in the sink and drop my bag on top of it, scowling at my own reflection in the mirror. I look like the Bride of Frankenstein. Black rings of eyeliner have settled under my eyes, causing a weird mask effect, and my hair is sticking straight up on one side. A girl must be prepared for this shit. Rifling through my bag, I find a travel case of Neutrogena wipes. With a clean face, I can start fresh. I’m doing makeup for a wedding today, so I have to look like I’m at least a little bit alive. Unfortunately, my hair isn’t as easily fixed without a shower. I comb it all to the side in a dramatic part and braid the flat side so it looks like I meant to look this way.
After a quick once-over, I’m appeased by the reflection staring back at me. It’s not perfect, but it gets a pass. I look around the dingy bathroom for mouthwash. My mouth tastes like wet dog and probably smells equally as rank. There’s toothpaste, but no way in hell am I using this dude’s toothbrush. Under the sink, I find what I’m looking for. The minty blue liquid splashes between my cheeks, burning the day-old alcohol from my tongue and bringing me new life. I grab my bag, spit into the sink, and move on.
Beef Dude is still sleeping. Using the ball of my foot, I push on his butt to rouse him. Finally, he stirs awake and looks up at me. “What time is it?” he whines. His voice is thick, and I seriously hope this fucker isn’t still drunk. I need to get to work.
“It’s time to give me the ride you promised last night.” I cross my arms over my chest, annoyed. I can’t believe I have to beg for a ride from this dipshit. Why do I get myself into these situations?
“Didn’t you ride me enough?” Blunt fingers scuff his stomach before his hand disappears below the blanket. Jesus, is he seriously scratching his balls right in front of me? Classy move, Tarzan.
“No, a ride to work. I told you last night I couldn’t come home with you unless I had a ride in the morning.”
I walk away to find my boots. The leather top hangs over the edge of the nightstand, but there is no sign of the other. It’s not the guy’s fault, but things that seem like a good idea at night are never as exciting by the light of day, and I’m annoyed at myself for the second time this week. Lucky for him, when I’m in a bad mood, I like to spread it around.
“Oh . . . uh. Yeah . . . uh. Cool.”
Oh my gosh, he’s dumb as a brick. My recollection of last night included a pretty intense conversation with this guy. I must have drunk way more than I thought.
“So, uh, where do you work anyway?” The guy sounds like the entire cast of Jersey Shore. Kill me.
“I work at Luxe. Right next door to the bar where we met last night.”
I locate my second boot inside the kitchen sink and slide them both on. When the fuck were we in the kitchen?
“Oh yeah, yeah. Right. Masseuse.” He sits up in bed and rubs his eye.
“No, I’m not a fucking massage therapist. I’m a makeup artist.” Ugh, I’m so over this conversation. I really need to reevaluate my life when I start banging dudes who make Rocky Balboa look smart. “Can we go?”
Beef Dude gets up and walks around his apartment, balls swaying in the wind. I roll my eyes and look at my watch. I have time, but I’ll go to work early just to get the hell out of here. He throws on his clothes at a glacial pace, and we both leave the apartment. Thank God! He clicks the button on the key fob. The lights on a Mazda Miata flash, and the car makes a beeping noise. I drop into the passenger seat as he gets into the driver’s side. Techno music thumps through the small space as he turns the ignition. Jesus Christ, I thought I was a walking stereotype, but this guy has all the Guido bases covered. All he’s missing is a can of Axe Body spray and some Pauly D tan accelerator.
“I gotta make a stop quick. It’s on the way,” he mumbles as he pulls out of the spot and heads down the road toward my job.
A bright yellow building sits on the edge of the highway, its parking lot full of cars old and new. The brilliant sun makes it hard to see into the wide-open bay doors, making it appear as though the building has two gaping black holes to nothing on the inside. That’s exactly where Beef Dude heads, leaving me in his Guido mobile to wait.
A few seconds later, he emerges from the building with another guy. Fury writhes in my gut. I don’t want to run errands with this fucker. I want to go to work and pretend this shit never happened, but I’m a lady. So, I sit quietly and wait . . .
And wait . . .
And wait . . .
Oh, hell no! My patience has completely run out. Beef Dude is messing with the wrong bitch. I get out of the car, and they both turn the second I start screaming.