Chapter 5
Lexie
I wake up in pain. Not the kind of pain you get from working out for the first time in a year. No, this is the ‘I got hit by a car’ kind of pain that you can only achieve by drinking too much at an office Christmas party. “Kill me now,” I groan.
“Not before you kill me,” moans someone nearby.
“Cammy?”
“Shh, your voice hurts me,” Cammy whispers in a husky morning voice.
“Am I at your place or are you at mine?” I blink down at the leather sofa directly beneath my face. Hers. I can’t afford fancy leather furniture. Hell, I can barely afford thrift store furniture.
“It was closer.”
“How’d we get home?”
“Not sure. I remember a black car.”
I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to remember the night. I turn my face a little to the left and see a spot of bubblegum pink on the floor. “Oh, God. That sweater,” I moan loudly.
“That sweater needs to be placed into the Hall-of-Fame section of your closet.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, if you wear that sweater, you will get laid. Remember that.”
“I didn’t get laid.” Did I?
“No, but you had several offers.” Cammy sits up fast––too fast, apparently. She has to swallow back her gag reflex by using breathing exercises. “I remember now. Mr. Parker gave us a ride home.”
“No!” I say shocked. “Why?” I hope it’s not because he was mad at me. I vaguely remember Katya telling me he wanted to talk to me. Did I speak to him? If so, what did he say to me?
“That I can’t say. Maybe I’ll be able to remember later but not yet.” Cammy lays her head back onto her sofa gently. “Need sleep.”
“Speaking of need. I need to get home to feed everyone.”
“You make it sound like you’ve got a house full of kids.”
“I do.”
“Pets. You have pets. They aren’t people.”
“They are to me,” I say pulling myself up into a sitting position. “Did I bring my green sweater home?”
“No idea.”
I stand up looking for my things. I find my coat, purse, and shoes near the door but no green sweater. Great. I lumber back over to the pink blob and pull it over my head. It hurts to slide it down my body. When it’s on, Cammy snickers. “What?”
“Look in the mirror.”
I walk over to her entry table with the mirror above it and screech, “What the hell?” There are large blue handprints right over my breasts like someone dipped their hands in blue ink and grabbed my girls. “Who did this?” I say pointing to my sweater.
“Uh, I vaguely remember you dancing with someone from the Pit. You were grinding your ass into him. He must have grabbed your boobs.”
“What? Why are the handprints blue?”
“Your punch was blue to match your theme, remember? Hell, all the drinks were blue. Maybe it was from that.”
