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He finds this funny? What kind of sick person is he? Oh God, what if he’s smiling as he imagines what I look like with my skin peeled off? I feel sick. Last night’s alcohol isn’t sitting well at all.
“Why are you smiling?” I ask—no, I demand. My voice is firmer this time, and the tremor that was there before is gone.
“You don’t remember last night, do you?” he says.
Last night? Shit, what happened last night?
“I don’t remember much about last …” My words trail off.
The answer backhands me in the face and I realize why this man looks so familiar.
“You’re Ram Bed Shaker,” I say. It sounds ridiculous to say out loud.
He must think so too. His smile is almost shy when he raises his arms. “An unfortunate nickname, but it is what it is. I’ve learned to embrace it.”
An unfortunate nickname, yes, but well deserved according to my friend Gina. After she told me about seeing Evan with that woman, and she heard how upset I was, she told me about a guy with the Instagram handle of Bed-Shaker, a well-endowed man with a reputation for being incredible in the sack, and a cure for a broken heart—or at least a distraction. I remember going through his Instagram photos and becoming hypnotized by his breathtaking good looks, and that smile … I’d gone weak in the knees.
I also remember that he’d saved a boy from drowning yesterday. It was all over the comments. A hero and a hottie? Double threat. I wanted him in the worst way. There was an instant animal attraction when I saw his photos, impossible to deny.
“A friend showed me your Instagram account and told me about your reputation, but why are you here?” I ask.
Oh my god, did Gina tell him about me? Did she give him my address?
“You texted me,” he says.
“What?” I don’t remember that part.
“Check your phone,” he says, that sly smile still on his face like he knows a secret that I don’t. Butterflies instantly rise in my chest. What the hell did I text him?
I look at my purse on the counter beside him with my phone in it. Since my memory is shit right now, I resign myself to the fact that I might be the reason he’s in my apartment. But that doesn’t mean I trust him any more than I would if he were a stranger who broke in.
I carefully make my way toward my purse. He’s standing in the way.
“My phone is in my purse,” I say, pointing at it.
Still with that cocky, beautiful smile. He looks at my open purse. “I see that.”
“I need to get by you.”
“Okay,” he says, but doesn’t move.
He knows I’m asking him to move in a roundabout way, but he’s playing with me and refuses to budge. Pressing my lips together, I push past him. Our bodies rub together and my arm, where our skin touches, feels as though it’s been set ablaze. I shiver. I’m utterly confused by my body’s reaction to him. I bump into people at the mall and grocery store all the time, but it never feels like that.
I grab my phone and step away as fast as I can. When I look at him, he’s staring at me with a strange look on his face, a mixture of curiosity and confusion. I wonder if he felt it too, that spark between us. I try to brush it off as static, but I’m not so sure that was it.
Unlocking my phone, I look at my texts. First I look at the texts Gina sent last night. She’d asked me if I wanted Ram’s number in case I was interested in his services. I told her I wasn’t, but she gave me his phone number just in case I changed my mind. I guess when I got drunk enough, I changed my mind. I roll my eyes. I’m the worst drunk person ever.
Next I check on my texts to Evan. Thank fuck and all that’s holy I didn’t text Evan too … oh God, no. No, no, no. Panic rips through me when I see that, no, I didn’t text Evan’s personal cell phone: I texted his work phone. With shaking hands, I open the text next to the company name and nearly scream when I see a picture of me in my pink bra and panties, the same ones I woke up in this morning. There’s no reply from Evan, but there’s a little icon in the corner saying it’s been read. Fuck. Fuck my life.
I’m going to throw up. How can this be happening? I’ll have to move out of town, join a traveling carnival, or get plastic surgery to alter my appearance. I’m not even joking—maybe I’m being dramatic, but I’m definitely not joking. I’m going to be the only person in recorded human history to actually die from humiliation.
“You all right?” Ram says.
I look up at him. The skin between his eyes knits with concern. I have no words so I just nod my head.
Since this day can’t possibly get much worse, I look at the texts between me and Ram and the blood rushes to my face, my cheeks blazing.
Cum ovr an fuk me. I wrote that… Oh look, I sent more pictures. The same ones I sent Evan. Real fucking nice. I wonder how many other people I sent them to. I’m such an incredible idiot. Well, at least they weren’t nudes. That’s the only ray of light shining through this shit storm.
