Page 11 of Daring the Bad Boy

The desperate urge to pee overtook her. Crawling out of bed, she headed across the cavernous room. Favoring her aching skull, she scooped up her clothing en route while images from the previous evening tumbled through her head in garish Technicolor: brilliant red strawberry daiquiris, sparkly pink penises, butter-smooth black leather and a pair of tempting hot chocolate eyes.

Mortification followed as the events of last night slowly became clear. Or clear-ish.

She’d jumped into a cab with a total stranger she’d met in the bar.

Cal. His name had been Cal. And he’d been a world-class kisser. From what she could remember of eating his face off in the back of the cab on a ride to his place in… She peered out of the bathroom window while washing her hands at the stainless steel sink… Clerkenwell.

This was Cal’s apartment. Had to be. The Dickensian architecture crammed next to brand new office space was instantly recognizable as the chic city neighborhood.

Had they slept together? They’d certainly snogged. The memory of his tongue’s strong, sensual strokes robbed her of breath all over again. She touched her fingertips to the prickle of beard burn on her cheeks. She could vaguely remember arriving at his apartment… Staggering up a flight of metal steps. And then it all became a blur – a hot, wet, heady blur wrapped in the phantom scent of coffee and sandalwood soap and leather. The hot brick between her legs began to throb.

But the rest of the night remained foggy and vague.

She opened the bathroom cabinet, i

n search of heavy-duty painkillers. To find it empty. Nothing. Except a bar of soap still in its wrapping. Had he just moved in here? And where was he now? Did she really want to know? Dressing quickly, she hopped around on one shoe while she washed her face, scrubbing off the smudged mascara and making her cheeks sting.

She tied her unruly hair into a knot, trying to ignore the pickaxes still hammering at her skull. For such a cute drink, strawberry daiquiris could leave you with a homicidal hangover. It felt as if all seven of Snow White’s dwarves were currently diamond mining right behind her frontal lobe. Heading into the bedroom, she spotted a tall glass of water on the other side of the bed to the one she’d woken up on, holding down a piece of folded paper.

She gulped down the water and unfolded the paper. A couple of round pink pills dropped into her palm.

Hallelujah. Painkillers.

Knocking the pills back with the last of the water, she read the note scrawled on the paper.

Hope your head’s not too sore this morning. Gone out to grab us some breakfast. Back soon.

C.

They had slept together. They must have. Had it been good? Bad? Awesome? How come she couldn’t remember a bloody thing?

This was horrendous. After jumping the guy last night in the bar. Kissing him into a coma in the cab. Ripping his clothes off once they got back here… Probably. And then having her way with him. Possibly. She absolutely could not recall a single detail.

Had she blanked it from her mind deliberately? Embarrassed by her slutty behavior? How could she face him this morning? When being bold and reckless and sexy was the opposite of who she really was?

While part of her was kind of astonished she’d been brazen enough to actually follow through last night, another part of her definitely did not want to deal with Mr. Too-Hot this morning. Especially while Dopey and Co. were still chipping away at her frontal lobe and making coherent thought a major effort.

She groaned, as panic clawed its way up her torso.

Leave now, before he gets back with breakfast.

Inching down the spiral staircase, she found herself in an enormous open plan living area. At least this she recognized. Lots more natural light from the two-story metal-framed windows illuminated leather sofas, a sleek breakfast bar, gleaming kitchen appliances and a plasma TV the size of a small cinema.

Thankfully the large room was empty. Her one-night hook-up must still be out sourcing breakfast.

Again everything was clean and tidy and super minimalist, except for more cardboard boxes stacked beside the couch. After hunting up her other shoe, which she found under the couch, she headed towards the front door. Pausing when she found two more large framed photographs leaning against the apartment’s back wall, as if someone had been planning to put them up but hadn’t got round to it. These images were as captivating as the ones upstairs, but much starker, imbued with the grim pragmatism of war reportage. One of a young girl gripping a dolls’ house in the rubble of a ruined building had her heart squeezing at the desperation in the child’s face. The work looked familiar, if not in content certainly in tone and concept. She heard a chime and glanced towards the clock above the art deco fridge.

Eleven o’clock. She shook her head, to free herself from the photograph’s spell. She had less than an hour to get into work. Her Saturday drawing class were doing their interim exam this morning, and the college’s administrator Mr. Abernathy was due to visit in the second hour to check on their progress.

All of which gave her an excellent excuse not to stick around and face Cal. Her first and last one-night stand. However good the sex may or may not have been, it was nothing more now than a blur of strawberry daiquiris and penis-shaped deely boppers.

Unlocking the heavy fire door, she slipped out of the apartment and scrambled down the metal stairs. The trickle of guilt at not waiting for Cal, or at least leaving a note to explain where she’d gone, evaporated as she reached the street and flagged down a cab.

This was for the best. The sex can’t have been great if she couldn’t remember it. So much for her grand plans to lift her V-Day curse.

Dopey and Co. had finally stopped mining her skull by the time the cab had made its way to Kings Cross.

She was so never having another strawberry daiquiri again in this lifetime.

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