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“Awww…you’re awake. How sweet,” I purr sarcastically. “Now will you get the fuck out of my house?”
Dave-Mike-Troy mumbles a string of swear words under his breath as he shoves his arms back into his shirt and begins buttoning it up—using words that even I don’t use very often—but I don’t care. He can call me a cunt all day long if he wants, as long as he’s leaving as he does it. Now I'm kinda glad I didn't fuck him last night.
I pull the closet door shut and begin stripping and dressing in the confined space, and not for the first time. I struggle to zip up my skirt as I bat hanging clothes out of my face; I make the resolution to clear out my closet of everything I don’t absolutely love and give it away to Goodwill or whatever.
The problem is, I love it all. I don’t work at a fashion magazine for nothing. It’s my life.
Finally dressed, only makeup and hair left, I exit my overstuffed closet to find an empty apartment. Dave-Mike-Troy has exited the building. Or, at least my part of it, and really, that’s all that matters.
After only 30 minutes in front of the mirror, which I consider to be nothing short of supersonic speed, I tap on my iPhone and check the time.
Fuccckkkkk…I only have 35 minutes left until I’m officially late to work, so by time I get downstairs, down the block, take the next train, and run down the two blocks from the subway station to Blush Magazine…
Well, I’m not sure even my push-up bra can save me today.
As I begin my hike down the three flights of stairs, I pull my iPhone out of my Kate Spade purse. Fuck this. Yeah, rent is stupidly expensive in Manhattan and I probs shouldn’t be spending money on a cab to get to work, but sometimes, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. If I don’t take a cab, I may not have a job to get to. I may as well have stayed in bed and taken Dave-Mike-Troy up on his morning fuck. At least then I wouldn’t be as horny as hell right now.
I debate between a yellow taxi cab and an Uber as I push open the front door to my apartment complex. A cab will be faster but more expensive. An Uber may not be close by. I should probably—
“Taxi! Hey, taxi!”
Some oh-my-god hot guy is flagging down a passing yellow cab. His suit is delish and his ass even better. I almost forget what I’m supposed to be doing as I take a moment to appreciate the fine specimen in front of me, but at the last moment, I remember:
I need a ride to work. Like, right now.
So I do something I’m not exactly proud of, okay? I’m not gonna write home and be all, “Hey Mom, guess what I did today? Yeah, that’s right, I fucked a guy over and stole his cab.” As I slither in past the oh-my-god hot guy and into the backseat of the cab, I even make myself the promise that I’ll post a “Sorry to the universe” apology on Instagram tonight. Complete with a sexy sad face. I can’t have karma completely biting me in the ass, right?
I slam the door close, just missing oh-my-god hot guy’s fingers and yell to the driver, “Go, go, go!” He slams on the gas and we take off, swerving into traffic, just missing a hot pink Toyota Prius.
I can’t help myself. I’m sorry, universe, but sometimes, you just have to.
I roll down the passenger side window and hang my head out of it, looking back at the guy and waving madly at him, a Cheshire grin on my face.
“Sorry!” I holler, my hair whipping around my face.
Sorry not sorry, but we can leave that part out, right?
Besides, the guy is just…uhhmm…..hot?
Like seriously, my thong would be wet if I were looking at him for another few minutes.
He had piercing blue eyes and a rugged looking face. Dark wavy hair. You could tell under that suit that fit his frame so well was a body that you probs would spend time licking over. And not one of those courtesy licks to get him to finally go down on you. No, like licking the ridges of his abs kinda body. A hard body.
Ripped and muscled and tan, oh my.
I settle back into my seat, ignoring the protestations of the Prius driver over me hanging out the window—take a chill pill, dude—and give the address for Blush.
I’m going to make it to work on time after all! Congratulatory pats on the back for me are in order.
I spend the rest of the ride just looking out the window, daydreaming about the guy. How he’d just walk over and pick me up and throw me on my desk and rip off my panties and bury his face into my cooch and just shoot me into orbit. Then just push his fat cock into me and make me yell and…
Okay, seriously, I need to chill out. This not having sex thing is just getting outta hand.
Besides, the guy seems sort of familiar. Where have I seen him before?
I walk into work after paying the cabbie (no drinks out on the town for me tonight, not with that bill) and realize, fuuuccckkkkk…something isn’t right. Like, usually on a Monday morning, people are a little slow to get to work ‘cause everyone’s hung over, but there’s slow to work and then there’s just not fucking working at all. The reporters and editors and photographers are milling around aimlessly instead of, like, doing something. Like, their jobs.
Panic grips me. I know two things off the bat, and I’ll give ‘em to you as they occurred to me:
