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“Okay, I’m gonna find Hannah,” I said. “Enjoy the party.”
I ducked out of the Grimaldis’ living room, meeping along, and went upstairs. I practically grew up in this house, and I had to go to the bathroom. My legs were so sweaty that I imagined there’d be a splash of sweat hitting the bathroom floor when I peeled them off. Hannah’s bedroom, sporting the same décor it had when she’d redecorated it at age twelve, was the last door on the hallway. I went in, paused to appreciate the purple walls, and went into Hannah’s loo (a word I’d co-opted from Judith, since it was so adorable), and locked the door. Took a look in the mirror, literally and figuratively.
I should’ve looked happier. My cheeks were pink thanks, to the martini and a half. My fresh pixie cut looked super-cute thanks to Robert, my hairdresser. The white sleeveless cashmere sweater showed my perfectly sculpted arms, and the cropped top gave a glimpse of my toned stomach. Being female, I had to be twice as fit as the guys on the department and also to make up for Denise, the only other woman firefighter, who complained constantly about working with men, still couldn’t figure out how to attach a hose to a hydrant and was afraid of heights (I know).
But tonight, I’d dressed for Judith, wanting to look gorgeous and chic and effortless. I really thought she’d come. This was a huge Christmas party, and at the very least, she’d have been able to schmooze and talk up her art. We could’ve held hands, maybe kissed under the mistletoe (briefly, because Judith hated public displays of affection).
And here I was alone, as I had been last year, and the year before that, and the year before that.
I sighed, unzipped my pants and sat down on the toilet, the cool air heavenly on my damp legs. I grabbed the hand towel and fanned them. Yeah. I’d stay here a few minutes and dry off, then see if Hannah and I could sneak off to my apartment, which was quiet and small and no candy canes in the martinis. I could swap this outfit for a pair of PJs and take off these cruel and beautiful shoes. Yes, I wore high heels, and I rocked them, thank you very much.
It was when I stood up that I realized I had a problem.
Pleather. Sweat. Super-skinny cut (to make my fabulous ass look even more so). The pants didn’t want to come past my knees. “Oh, come on,” I muttered, tugging. They didn’t budge. I pulled harder. A centimeter, maybe two.
I hopped, pulling harder. Jumped. Wriggled. Pulled them down to my ankles, thinking I could get some momentum going and heaved. Nothing. “For God’s sake,” I hissed. I mean, how hard could pulling up pants be? I tugged for another minute. I dried my legs with a hand towel, but it was fabric that was a problem. Maybe I could get them off, then just borrow a pair of normal pants from Hannah.
With the pants choke-holding my calves, I gave one last tug. I lost my balance a little, staggered because of my bound legs and crashed against the door.
And then I fell. It was both slow motion and over before I knew it. The edge of the sink hit my eye with a ugly thud, my hands still gripping the truculent waistband of the pleather pants. Ouch. That would leave a mark, I thought as I continued to fall. There. Done. I lay on the cool tiled floor, which felt incredible against my mostly bare legs.
Then I felt the sting. Putting my hand to my eyebrow, I winced. Shit. I was bleeding. I sat up slowly—I was an EMT as part of my job, so I knew the drill. Shit. Blood poured down the side of my face, splotching onto my white sweater. That would be hell to get out. And eesh, it was still splotching.
A little dizzy, I grabbed the sink and pulled myself up, pants still clutching my legs in a death grip. Oh, boy. It was a really good cut, about an inch, right in my eyebrow. Blood was in my eye now, and the side of my face was horror-movie nasty—blood now dripping off my chin into the pure white sink. Grabbing a face cloth, I ran it under cold water and pressed it against my eye. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! I’d have a huge shiner in a day or two. And I couldn’t take tomorrow off, because it was Christmas Eve and I was working for Titus, who had little kids.
This wouldn’t have happened if Judith had come with me, I thought. I hoped she’d feel very guilty about this and possibly sleep over my house and take care of me. Unlikely, but it would be the least she could do.
Well, I was still gushing blood, and my pants were still stuck below my knees. I needed Hannah. Where was my phone?
Yeah, where was my phone? It wasn’t in my pocket, because these lovely pants didn’t have a pocket. Right. I’d tossed it on Hannah’s bed before coming in here.
With my legs locked together by the red bondage material. I opened the bathroom door, then walked, penguin-like, to the bed, still holding the sodden face cloth against my eye, and flopped down next to my phone. Texted Hannah with one hand.
Please come to your room asap. Pleather emergency.
If I took the face cloth off my eye, blood might get on Hannah’s pristine white duvet, so I lay back on the hardwood floor. Looked at my phone. The text had been read. Thank God.
Just then the door burst open. “Samantha?” It was Hannah’s mom, Lisa. “Honey, I don’t know where Hannah is, but her phone lit up, she left it on the table with the egg rolls, and I saw the message, and you said it was an emergency, so I…what’s…oh, my God. Oh. Oh, God, what happened? Samantha? Are…are you…am I…”
Lisa Grimaldi crumpled. “I’m fine!” I said, sitting up. “I’m fine. My pants got stuck, and I hit my eye—”
Nope. She was out cold. I scooted over to her side, rolled onto my knees, and put my hand on her shoulder. Great. More blood for everyone. Also, I was so glad I’d wore a thong tonight, so my still-sweaty ass could appreciate the nice draft that came in from the hall.
“Lisa? Mrs. Grimaldi! Wake up, Lisa.” Splats of my blood fell on her white face. Shit. I’d left the facecloth back at the base of Hannah’s bed.
“So, Sam, what’s the emerge—” Hannah sauntered in, then jolted to a stop. “Oh, my God! Mom? What happened? Mommy?” She and her mom were really tight “What happened? Why is she bleeding? Daddy, call 911!”
“Oh, please don’t,” I said.
Hannah looked at me and did a double-take. “Jesus, Sam! Did my mother hit you?”
“No! Of course not.” Downstairs, I heard someone shouting to someone else to call 911. “I hit my head on the sink. Your mom saw my face and fainted.”
Mrs. Grimaldi began to stir. “Why am I lying on the floor?”
“You fainted, Mom.” Hannah looked up at me. “Why are your pants—”
“Because they’re pleather,” I hissed. “Tell your dad everything’s fine. We don’t need an ambulance.”
