More than Fashion

7

I sat on the bed, hard. My head spun, my stomach twisted, but worst of all, those creeping doubts and worries crept back in. “Stay with me,” I begged, digging my fingers into his shirt, pleading up at him. I sounded vulnerable and pathetic, but I didn’t care at this point. “Just for tonight. Don’t leave me alone. Please, Gavin.”

He considered me for a long moment and then sighed. “I’ll stay, but we’re not doing anything more until you’ve sobered up.” He grabbed the water bottle off the table and handed it to me again. “Drink this. I’ll be back in a moment.”

I fell back on the bed with a groan as he disappeared into the bathroom. God, he was infuriating. I wasn’t even that drunk. Fine, I’d drink this water, and when he came back, I’d make sure we continued where we’d left off.

But now that I was lying down, I was suddenly so, so tired. My head hurt, my body was so relaxed I could barely move, and this bed was so comfortable I melted right into it. Maybe I could just close my eyes and rest while I waited for him to come back…

CHAPTER THREE

Something buzzed by my head, and I swatted at it. A fly? A bee?

I met only air. I peeked an eye open, and bright light sent painful stabs through my skull. Ow, ow, ow.

More buzzing near my head. Sunlight spilled in through nearby windows, along with the sound of cars honking outside. The bed felt wrong, and the pillow was too soft. Where was I?

I sat up fast. All the blood rushed to my brain, and with it came a new wave of pain. I pressed a palm to my throbbing forehead, remembering everything. New York, a hotel room, and way too much alcohol.

Oh, and a gorgeous guy who’d gone down on me.

I was alone now and still wearing my dress from last night—sans underwear, of course. At some point, Gavin must have helped me under the covers, and he’d left another water bottle on the bedside table. I popped off the cap and chugged it, but it did little to relieve the sandpaper feel of my mouth or the pounding in my head.

The buzzing continued behind me. I groped around the bed and found the source of the incessant noise: my phone. Carla, calling me. s**t. She hated talking on the phone even more than I did. If she was calling and not texting, this had to be bad. Really bad.

I hit answer and braced myself. “Yeah?”

“Where are you? Are you in your room? Are you ready to go?”

Shit, s**t, s**t. I glanced around the room and found the clock. 8:15 AM. A car was picking us up at 8:30 to take us to the show.

I had a raging hangover, I probably looked like ass, and I was going to be late for Behind The Seams. FML for sure.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes,” I said and hung up.

I dashed into the bathroom and washed my face. No time for a shower, though I desperately needed one, so I used a washcloth to do a quick once-over. After a hasty brush of my hair and my fastest makeup routine ever, I ran out to get dressed. Thank god I’d taken Carla’s advice and planned each outfit to wear on the show in advance.

As I got dressed, I spotted my red lace panties hanging off the lampshade and flashed back to last night. How I’d picked up a tattooed guy with a sexy accent and a very talented tongue. How I’d practically begged him to screw me and he’d refused. And then he’d left. Without a word.

Okay, to be fair, I’d passed out, but he could have left a note or something.

Whatever. His loss. It wasn't like I’d planned to see him again anyway. There was a reason for the no-names policy, after all. Especially since I’d be on Behind The Seams and unable to contact anyone for the next few weeks. There was no point wondering about what might have been. Or why he hadn’t stuck around. Nope, none of that mattered. I’d gotten what I’d wanted out of him—an amazing o****m—and now I was moving on.

I put on a cute green-and-black A-line dress I’d made and inspected myself in the mirror. My long black hair looked frizzy and my brown eyes had some bags under them, but considering a hammer was pounding my skull in, I called it good.

Before I left, I threw everything into my luggage, downed a couple pain pills, and scanned the room. Oops. Almost forgot those panties. I shoved them in the front pocket of my luggage and wheeled myself out.

Carla was already in the lobby, looking flawless (of course) in a pair of blue jeans and a black V-neck shirt. She had her arms crossed and tapped one perfectly manicured finger against her arm.

“Cutting it close,” she said, when I approached.

“Shh,” I said. “Not so loud. I have a major hangover.”

“No sympathy. You brought this on yourself.”

“Trust me, I know. I’ll tell you all about it in the car.”

We rushed outside, and the warm, humid air instantly wrapped around me in a suffocating embrace. I had to fight off the urge to vomit until we slipped into the large black car the show had sent for us.

I gave Carla the lowdown of my evening once we were in the backseat and driving through the crowded streets of New York. I tried to keep my voice down, but I was sure our driver heard all the sordid details anyway. Whatever, he’d probably heard a lot worse in his line of work.

“The guy just…left?” Carla asked when I was done.

I shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s not like anything would come of it anyway. All I wanted was a quick hookup with a hot guy, and that’s what I got. Even better, I got it without the awkward morning-after chat. If only all my one-night stands could go so well…”

The driver cleared his throat, and I smirked. Yep, definitely listening.