Chapter 1
Ali Kat
Why does my head hurt so bad? And why’s my mattress so hard?
I roll over, but my back hits a wall that shouldn’t be there.
That’s strange? Oh, no—did I go home with someone?
I think back to the night before, vaguely remembering the strobing lights of the nightclub. I’d gone to the grand unveiling of Saint Cloud in New York City, Derek Dallanger’s latest endeavor. Did I go home with him?
Wait, no—that’s impossible. I was on a date with Alistair Whent. Ali & Ali is what everyone was calling us.
I keep my breathing steady as not to alert Alistair or any other potential lovers to my waking. There’s a certain finesse to waking up, and I, for one, do not intend to make myself out to be a train wreck.
The bed feels stiff, so there’s no way it could belong to Alistair, Derek, or anyone of note for that matter. Maybe I’m in a college dorm?
What if there are pictures?
My stomach churns at the thought of it. A picture of me holding hands with someone wouldn’t be so bad. It might even nab me a few headlines and add an air of mystery to my dating life. On the other hand, a picture of me groping or making out with someone could get me those same headlines, though the tone would be quite different.
I cringe at the thought of sitting across from Ted, my publicist, as he puts together an action plan to get my reputation back on track—which is entirely unfair. It’s not like I’m an irresponsible teenager. I’m twenty-nine years old. I should be able to get laid without it making major headlines.
An acrid scent assaults my nose, a mixture of urine and harsh chemical cleaner, if I had to guess.
Oh, God, please don’t let this be a college dorm room.
College-aged boys are the hardest to keep quiet because, for them, sex is something to brag about. It will get them pats on the back and rounds of applause. Heck, banging Ali Kat Carter and fetching a headline is gonna get them laid for life.
While I’ll have harsh glares and mocking smiles to look forward to.
I’m pretty sure college dorm rooms are more comfortable than this. I don’t even have a pillow, and there’s no mattress.
Am I in a drug den?
I hear a creak followed by heavy footsteps.
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” a woman’s voice booms.
Ah-FUCK! Did I really go home with a woman? Oh, please, no—not that. Anything but that!
It’s not that I find women appalling. On the contrary, I think some are quite lovely, but that doesn’t mean I’m down with going ‘downtown.’ It’s okay to experiment with friends when you’re in college, but you don’t go home from a bar with some random woman. The tabloid headlines would be murder, and every guy thereafter would request a threesome.
“Get your pretty little ass up,” the woman shouts.
My ‘pretty little ass?’ That’s so crass! Who fucking says that? Oh-my-GOD—is she going to talk about my ‘pretty little ass’ in interviews? She sounds…beefy, like some Viking shield-maiden. I’m never going to live this down!
Maybe she doesn’t know who you are. Just get up, grab your things, and jet out the door.
What if there are paparazzi outside?
If there’s only one pap, hop in their car, and offer them the story of a lifetime if they’ll bury your tryst with Brunhilda the Warrior Woman.
This has all the making of a rom-com.
I give a long exhale as I go over my plan: Get up. Get my shit. Get out the door. No small talk. No good mornings. Just grab-n-go!
I launch myself off the bed onto the concrete floor and look around for my shoes. The room is so bare and devoid of furniture that I wonder if I went home with someone who lives in their parents’ basement.
