Dax doesn’t say anything at first, but I can hear the wheels turning. Before I continue my search, I put him on speaker and set the phone down. I need both hands to pick through the discarded mess of clothing and accessories.
“Hey,” he says, somewhat calmer. “You’re not still mad, are you?”
I perk. “Mad about what?”
He groans. “Don’t be a dick, Millie.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Stripping off the long shirt I wore to bed, I return to my shit pile of clothes. After some serious eyeballing, I spot something promising among the many tights and thongs.
“Look, if you’re already over it, cool, but we can talk when you get here. Alright? I hate feeling like I hurt your feelings.” He does sound miserable, and despite being an asshole 24/7, I know he’s being sincere.
“Okay.” I pull out a couple of options and hold them to my chest. “We can talk later.”
The sigh of relief he breathes is palpable. “Great. So, when can you get here?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I can put Trish on for you.” He hesitates, then says with some hope, “Unless you can be here in the next hour?”
“Yeah, I think I can make that.” Tossing the clothes on the bed, I go to my panty drawer and withdraw a red, lace-trimthong and slip it on to settle above my hips. It’s throwing me off not knowing what happened last night. I don’t usually go to bed without underwear.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “You sound like you’re running a marathon.”
“You’re telling me. I feel like I ran one!”
“After last night, I’m cutting you off after two shots again,” he says with a dry laugh.
“How many did I have?” One shot is okay, two is questionable, but any more after that? That’s bad news. He and I both know what I’m like when I’m not totally sober.
“More than enough.” He doesn’t sound happy. “I thought you were gonna relapse.”
I press my lips together and try not to flinch, even though he can’t see me. Low blow, but it’s not like I can take offense. He’s seen me at my lowest of lows before, which was about seven months ago during the post break-up phase. My relationship ended abruptly after four years together. I was a wreck. If I wasn’t listening to my Type O Negative vinyl collection and crying on the floor, then I was drinking and fucking my way around mutuals. Admittedly, not my finest moment, but I’ve made significant progress.
“No relapse, just stupid decisions. I promise.” I suppress a pained groan as I wiggle into a pair of fishnets. “Anyway, I’ll call a Zippy driver now and see you soon, okay?”
“Okay, see you soon.”
The line goes dead, and I slip on the black one-piece I pulled from the pile at my feet. It isn’t my favorite piece, but the neckline is generous and makes my tits look great. Win-win. After I’m dressed, I fly to the bathroom and do a quick once-over. The remnants of my make-up from last night are pretty bad, so I work on scrubbing it off. My skincare routine willhave to suffer until after this shift, and while I would love a hot shower to ease my aching body, I don’t have the time.
With the speed of an Olympic runner, I apply a heavy layer of moisturizer and a light layer of cover up over my pale skin. I touch up my eyes with mascara and rub a red lip oil over my dry lips. Picking up my brush, I run it through my tousled emerald green hair and spray it down with dry shampoo, fluffing it with my fingers. Some of last night’s curls have kept their shape, so I spritz hairspray over the ends and then pin half of it to the side. It’s days like these I’m grateful for the shorter length.
“It’ll have to do.” Once I’m at String Theory, I can do more with the extra make-up bag and curling iron I’ve got in the dressing room.
I run back to my room and throw on a gold, layered chain necklace, and slip on some heels. After I’m dressed, I open the Zippy app and call for a ride. I’ve got plenty of time before it arrives, so I head into the kitchen for a snack. Just as I’m grabbing a rice cake and peanut butter, my phone buzzes on the counter with a text from one of the girls.
VERITY: Ronnie is here.
My stomach drops. Ronnie? She’s never at the club. Even when we were together, she hated being there.
ME: What?? Why??
A picture comes through a second later. It’s blurry, but it looks like Ronnie and another girl decked out in white. Another photo comes through, and it’s much clearer than the first. My eyes go wide, and I physically feel like my jaw could hit the floor. The girl in white, standing hand-in-hand with my ex, Ronnie, is Lilah. I’m rooted to the spot. Lilah was once a true friend, and also a former String Theory dancer. She started shortly after me, but then quit a few months back. I had no idea she was dating Ronnie.
ME: Lilah?! Really??
VERITY: I heard about it… just wasn’t sure :(
ME: Gods… that’s just… I mean, good for her…
