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THE PERFECT EXCUSE
HOPE
As the day goes on, there’s no denying that the fever I woke up with hasn’t gone away.
Not even bringing iced coffee to work helped the heat rushing through my veins, and when I popped a few Tylenol, hoping to break it, all that happened was that I got a stomach ache from the medicine.
All in all, I feel likeshit.
Is this the flu? Something worse?
Am I dying?
I think I’m dying.
I haven’t had the actual flu in almost a decade. The last time I had a full-blown case, I was in high school and missed an entire week of midterm assessments. My fever was so high that everything I saw had an orange tint on it for days, and I think I passed out on the couch at my mom’s house for almost a week.
But this? This is something different. Somethingweird. Though I’m not sure what this is, I don’t think it’s the flu.
Why?
No matter how many years it’s been, I’d remember if it made methishorny.
Shit. I don’t know what kind of illness makes me feel like, if I got laid, I’d feel a hundred times better. My tits are heavy and achy. My poor pussy is slick and hot; I’m so wet that it’s leaving splotches on my panties. I brought my vibe in the shower with me, grateful I splurged for the waterproof one, but despite comingtwicebeneath the cool spray, I’m even hotter when I’m done.
And I mean thatbothways: my temperature, and my need to go find a guy and bang it out.
But since I can’t tell Moira I’m calling out with these symptoms, I suck it up and head out to the library, hoping that spending eight hours at work will be enough to distract me from this weirdo illness.
It doesn’t.
I do my best to hide it. I offer to cull some of the least-visited shelves so that I can be by myself, and if anyone notices me frequent trips to the bathroom, they’re polite enough not to mention it. Too bad the cramps only get worse as the day goes on. My stomach is tight, the back of my neck slick with sweat. At one point, my breath gets shallow and I don’t even notice it until I’m panting like a freaking porn star, only without the dick to get me off.
Clamping my mouth shut, hoping no one heard me, my sudden embarrassment that I let this overwhelming need get to me is enough to help me through the next part of my shift.
For most of the shift I managed to avoid anyone else. When it’s time to sign out and get ready to go home?
That’s when things get a little dicey.
Jake was working the counter most of our shift. It’s been a couple of days since our schedules coincided—Jake was off the last two, with me having one of my off-days on Monday—and I smiled at him this morning before quickly making myself scarce.
I had hoped to avoid him on my way out like I have been lately, but as though fate is conspiring against me along with this inexplicable illness, he’s standing in front of the computer when I go to sign out.
Does Jake always smell so freaking delicious? I don’t usually stand too close to him, but I was so eager to just log out that I sidled up to him without waiting for him to scoot over so that I could reach the keyboard.
That was my mistake. Breathing in his scent—a mixture of soap and the rich cologne he wears sparingly but really stands out today—I gasp and, without even realizing I’ve done it, inch closer to him.
For a moment, Jake’s expression is one of surprise, yet delight, almost like he’s been waiting to be this close to me without pushing himself on me. But then, as though noticing there’s obviously something off about me, he frowns.
“Are you feeling okay? You look a little flushed.”
That’s better than me wondering if he’d be up for a quickie in the library bathroom… but I am.
I totally am.
That should’ve been my first real clue that something was more wrong than I initially thought. Before, I just about convinced myself that I was dying. As Jake moves into me, concern written on his adorable face while his cologne continued to go straight to my head… and my vagina… I ask myself: why was I so against getting to know him? Sure, he’s my co-worker, but what if I’m giving up on a good thing because I’m too worried about things getting awkward at work if things go south.
“I’m fine,” I lie. Then again, if he really meant it when he said we could go out… get to know each other… maybe end up somewhere private.. I just might be. “I was feeling a little weird earlier, but I’m okay. I think I just need to eat something.”
