âI have-a work in the morning.â
Send âI have work in the morning,â and Iâll write my character taking the Walk of Shame out of your characterâs place after a one-night stand.
When she finally cracked opened her eyes, disgruntled and disoriented, the first thing she noticed was that her mouth tasted dry and fuzzy, like she had swallowed a hairball. She groaned and rubbed her face with fever-hot hands, wondering what in the hell she had gotten up to last night. She remembered wandering into a bar, already drunk and looking for a fightâor a fuck. Apparently, she had found the latter.
She shifted over, lifted herself up on to her elbow, and peeled back the sheets to give her a glimpse of last nightâs fuck-toy. Well. He had a great body, but that wasnât really a surprise. Even drunk, she knew what she liked; slimmer builds, dark hair, a goth or goth-wannabe in the making. They were usually desperately hard for girls like her, willing to do anything for a fun tumble. The guy shifted, giving her an eyefulâniceâbefore she let her eyes travel back up. He had a surprisingly lack of tattoos for the kind that usually hung around Moâs old place.
When she finally saw his face, she felt sick. Like she was gonna hurl. She muffled a scream, dropped the sheets and hung her head low onto her arm. Shit, shit, shit, fuck, no, hell! Largo. Of fucking course.
How did this happen? Maybe heâd drugged her drink or something. Maybe it had been dark and she hadnât seen his face, maybe heâd dropped the fruity-ass accent, or maybe sheâd just lost a bet. One way or the other, she wasnât sticking around to hear it.
She slipped out of the sheets, and searched the roomâher clothes were too fucking scattered to deal with right now.
But his were in one nice little pile. Finderâs keepers, bitch.
She slipped out the door of GeneCo Tower wearing Paviâs clothes in as street-punk a fashion as she could manage with the tight (tight on her, Christ, how did he fit into them?) silver pants.
Never. Again.
