Page 12 of Love & Other Disasters

Four

Light seared through her eyelids, and she turned away from the brightness. The movement caused pain to radiate through her skull. Holy crap. Violet placed her hands on top of her head to try and keep her throbbing brain still. She ran her tongue over her front teeth to unstick them from her lips. Everything hurt. Where was she? What happened? A hotel room. An expensive one at that.

A deep inhale stopped her mid roll. Violet stifled a scream, because her head would explode. She cracked open an eye and a man lay beside her, on his stomach, fast asleep, and naked. The sheet lay below his waist giving her a view of broad shoulders, a smooth back that dipped and rose to where a toned butt peeked from under the covers. His arm stretched overhead, giving her a view of the tribal looking tattoo on his bicep.

Frat Guy.

Violet squeezed her eyes shut, and pressed her palms over her eyes trying to hold them inside her skull. They were both naked in bed, in his hotel room. Flashes of X-rated memories flooded her pain-addled brain. What had she done? She’d never slept with a man on the first date, let alone right after they met. Violet dared a peek through her fingers. Darn it, he was still there. She had to get out of there without waking J.P. This was bad. So bad.

She scooted an inch toward the edge of the bed, waited a beat, and when he didn’t stir, inched again. Not taking the time to contemplate the situation any further, she drew up an escape plan in her mind. At the edge of the bed, he still hadn’t stirred. Feet on the floor, Violet tiptoed, gathering her scattered clothing from the floor.

The room blurred, and she couldn’t find her underwear. What if he woke up while she stood there naked? Violet scurried into the bathroom and shoved on her bra and dress, zipping up the back the best she could manage. Her hair was a mass of disaster, and one set of false eyelashes hung loose. Nothing came into focus. Closing her right eye, everything was blurry. Closing her left, the world cleared. An alcohol fueled aneurysm, perhaps? No. A contact lens was missing.

J.P.’s heavy breath came from the bedroom, but she couldn’t risk waking him. Her glasses were in her purse, she removed the one contact and risked the blurred escape. She held her breath and retrieved her cell phone from the bedside table. With her shoes in hand, she snatched her purse from the couch and gingerly worked the door locks.

Her first walk of shame. At twenty-seven, she was far too mature for getting intoxicated, losing her panties, and sleeping with men she just met. She never even had a one-night stand in college. Violet tapped the app on her phone to get a ride, but was it better to leave the hotel just in case he came looking for her? Would he? But, he’s a guy, and he expected her to leave. A wave of nausea washed over her as the elevator lurched to a stop at the ground floor. Violet took a deep breath, straightened, and plastered on some fake confidence strolling through the lobby like she wasn’t commando and hungover running away from a one-night stand.

In a coffee shop down the street, she went to the bathroom. There she removed the pins from her hair, and using a rubber band from her purse to gather it into a knot. And tried to wipe up the smeared eye makeup to no avail. She would have to live with the racoon look until she made it home. At the counter, she ordered a large coffee and ignored the stares while waiting. How on earth did some women have multiple one-night

stands? Last night was an anomaly, and she’d never see Frat Guy again.

J.P. dragged his roller bag through airport security, and his head hurt like a son of a bitch. Running late and hungover made the whole airport routine worse. To add insult to injury, he’d woken up alone. She’d bolted and didn’t leave a note, only her panties. The irony of the situation not lost on him, that he wanted her to be there, and she wasn’t. What if she hadn’t enjoyed their activities as much as he did? What if she’d faked it? There were not enough pain meds in the world to make him feel better.

He made it through the hubbub of scanning, ID checking, and headed toward the gate. The intercom announced that his flight was boarding and to make his way to gate 8 at once. J.P. pulled out his phone and tried Brent again.

“Hey man, what’s up?” he answered.

“About to catch my flight. I wondered if you had Katia’s number?”

Brent paused for a beat. “You didn’t get it?”

He’d gotten it, but not her number. “No, she was gone when I…” shit.

“When you what?” he laughed. “Got lucky, huh? She must’ve been something. You’ve called me twice already this morning.”

“Do you have it or not?” he barked, wincing in pain. “Look I’m about to fly while hungover, so if you have no intention of being helpful…”

“No,” he answered. “I’d never met her until last night. I’ll ask Elle.”

“Just get Elle to give her my number. And let me know.”

“What happened last night?”

“My flight’s boarding. Later, man.”

J.P. hung up and got in line. If he could ignore his throbbing head long enough, maybe he’d get an hour sleep. He hoped that Elle would pass along his number and Katia would call or text. He should have gotten her number before they went back to his room. Or at least before they’d jumped each other like people who hadn’t gotten laid in an eternity. He smiled at the memory, then winced in pain.

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