“Up you come.” I stretch a hand toward her, wiggling my fingers. “You can do it. I know you can.”
Her hand locks onto mine, and I yank her back to her feet. She wobbles a bit and with each step she takes, she makes a keening sound like a dying hyena, but eventually we make it to her door where she roots around in her purse, muttering to herself.
I offer to look for her keys, but apparently, I’ve “done enough” and “should have let her sleep on the stairs.”
Cursing, she squats down and dumps the contents of her purse onto the stoop. A wallet, tampons, chewing gum, two tubes of Chapstick, at least six hair ties, a napkin with—are thosechicken tenders?—a ball of change, and a condom spill onto the concrete.
That thing really is like a black hole.
One more shake, and the keys magically appear.
Loren holds them up with a victorious smirk and proceeds to sweep the random assortment back into her purse, forgetting one thing.
Heat climbs my throat when I bend down to pick up the condom. “I believe this is yours.”
“You keep it,” she says, turning the key in the lock. “It’s not like I’ll be having sex anytime soon.” Her maniacal laugh curls around my ears. “Besides, who needs men when you have vibrators?”
She leaves me standing alone in the hallway holding a fucking condom, wondering what other sex toys she might own.
CHAPTER 21
LOREN
Ratbag
ANSWER THE DAMN PHONE
Sweat leaksfrom my palms as I walk into the office Wednesday morning. Meg and I both succumbed to the vat of alcohol we poisoned ourselves with Monday night and called in sick yesterday. She sent me a text this morning to say she still hasn’t recovered, which means I must walk in alone. To make matters worse, my milk was expired so I had to choke down fistfuls of dry cereal between sobs and there’s no scrumptious artisanal croissant or fancy coffee to make it all better.
Yesterday, I woke up with a hangover the size of Texas—and I use the term “woke up” in the loosest sense of the word because I didn’t get out of bed the entire day.
That’s right. I lay in my tiny bed in my crappy apartment and watched clips of horror movies—which Ihate—on my phone all because every other video suggested was from freaking romcoms.
Whoever writes those things is a damn liar.
There is no broken hero with a traumatic past willing to change and do anything for the woman he loves. There are only assholes named Josh who lie and cheat and break hearts.
Now it’s time to face the music, and I’m sick to my stomach with worry.
That Rebecca didn’t get the message.
That she did and is devastated.
That Josh made me look like a psycho trying to steal her man.
That I’m going to get to my desk and find out I’ve been fired for sleeping with my boss’s boyfriend, which means I won’t have money to pay rent in February, and I’ll get kicked out of my apartment and end up living under the bridge with all those mangey dogs.
What if they turn on me and make me their next meal? They have hunger written all over their scarred faces.
I could always go home. But to be honest, I think I’d rather brave the rabid wolf pack.
My hands keep wanting to ball into fists, but I force them to relax.
It’ll be fine.
It’ll all be fine.
I take the stairs nice and easy, focusing on breathing and putting one foot in front of the other. Past accounting. Past the design team. Up another set of stairs to the marketing department. All I have to do is make it to my cubicle. That’s it. Wednesday’s workload usually isn’t too bad, so if I get to my desk, I’ll be able to get through today.
