About Face. Amy Lee Burgess
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My eyes felt gritty and full of sand when I fluttered them open the next morning. I had no idea where the hell I was or why the sunlight had a weird dappled effect across the sheet that covered my nude body.
My head thumped, and my mouth tasted sour. I held still, afraid I might be sick, until the queasiness passed.
Someone’s bare foot brushed my ankle. I jerked away in shock, clutching the sheet to my neck like a virgin in a bodice-ripper.
Holy shit, it stank. The man in bed with me reeked and his scent was all over me. I was fucking disgusting.
The smell decided my rebellious stomach and I lurched out of the bed. I had no idea where the bathroom was. I estimated I had about thirty-five seconds to figure it out.
I looked around to orient myself and discovered I was in a small studio apartment. Outside, seagulls screamed over the relentless crash of waves. Sheer green curtains with an odd texture fluttered in front of a half-open sliding door that led to a weathered deck. The dappled effect was explained.
Dirty dishes were piled in a porcelain sink near the front door. A rickety table and two chairs squatted in front of the sink. More dishes were on the table as well as a thick accumulation of junk mail.
A battered sofa with the arms duct-taped to keep the stuffing from spewing out rested against one wall bookended by two tray tables. A drop ceiling and cheap fluorescent lights completed the shabby decor.
No bugs, just the cluttered detritus of a young bachelor.
A half-open door with chipped paint to the left of the front door was either a bathroom or a closet.
I didn’t have time to care so I bolted.
It was a bathroom. Not filthy, but certainly grungy. I prayed to the porcelain goddess over and over but still couldn’t get that foul stench out of my nose.
I’d slept with an Other.
I even thought I remembered his name. Don. Or maybe Ron. Ron. Almost definitely Ron.
To be fair, he didn’t stink because he was unwashed. He just wasn’t Pack. He wore Obsession cologne. I could smell it the bathroom cabinet and faint traces in the damp towels on the rack.
Some Pack could sleep with Others and get over their strange, sour scents. I’d never been one of them. I could work with them, ride the subway with them, buy food and clothes from them, but I could not be intimate with them.
Until the fourth or fifth Long Island Iced Tea, apparently.
Just the thought of the sweet drink loaded with six different kinds of alcohol made me gag again until I was reduced to dry heaves that twisted my stomach and choked my throat and nose.
Murphy had walked out on me four months ago and I’d painted my condo. Jason Allerton dropped me as his Advisor and I’d rushed out, gotten drunk, and fallen into bed with some young Other man.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I needed to take a shower so I could rinse the stink off me, and wash away the hangover.
Breath held, I twitched the grungy shower curtain aside to reveal a mildewed plastic shower stall. It was not exactly the Ritz, but whatever.
The water pressure was for shit and the temperature fluctuated between icy cold with spurts of stinging hot. I endured it until I’d soaped my entire body and washed my hair with Ron-or-Don’s combination shampoo and body wash. Only men could be so lazy as to combine two such different products. The gel smelled like a guy, too.
Once I was done, I realized I’d have to wrap one of his used, Obsession-scented towels around me to dry off. The entire point of the shower was undone.
Curses spilled out of my mouth in a steady stream as I dried off with as little of the damn towel as I could manage and not stay dripping wet.
When I walked out of the bathroom, Don or Ron was awake and hastily doing dishes as if I gave a shit what his hellhole apartment looked like.
Last night in the bar, he’d been almost a dead ringer for Liam Murphy, except he was shorter and younger. This morning he didn’t even remotely resemble Murphy, except maybe a little around the eyes. He wasn’t fat, but he was loose in places Murphy was tight. And his hair wasn’t right. It was blond. It had looked darker under the black lights in the bar. Everything about him looked different under the lighting and the influence of those fucking evil Long Island Iced Teas.
His voice was wrong too. It was deeper, with a Rhode Island accent, not an Irish one.
“Hey, do you want breakfast? I can make eggs? I don’t have bacon, but I think I have toast?” Everything he said was a question. I remembered bits and pieces from the night before. At one point I’d told him to stop asking me so many questions and he’d said, “Am I asking you lots of questions?” I’d cried, “There’s another one right there!” Then I’d kissed him to shut him the fuck up.
We’d still been in the bar then, but I guessed after it closed he’d brought me up to his apartment. Empty beer bottles littered the countertop, and I devoutly hoped they weren’t from last night. My stomach rolled again, so I looked away.
“I need to go.” I was pretty close to panicky as I searched the room for my clothes. Aha. My dress was wadded up on the sofa. It seemed we’d had a very heavy make-out session there. My bra was under the coffee table, and I grimaced at the thought of wearing it after it had spent the night on the grubby, stained carpet.
One sandal was by the front door and the other was by the kitchen table. My purse was on the table. I had no earthly idea where my panties were, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to stick around to find out.
“You don’t have to?” Ron-or-Don made the statement into a question. I wanted to scream, but didn’t. “I mean, I’d like it if you stayed, okay? Unless…you have a boyfriend, right? You kept telling me last night you didn’t, but you do, don’t you? Can you stay for ten minutes to eat something? Please?”
As he spoke, I shimmied into my bra and last night’s cocktail dress. I spied my panties tucked half under one of the sofa cushions. Disgusting. With a grimace, I plucked them free and debated whether I wanted to put them on.
“Oh, I just wanted to tell you? I used a condom, okay?” He gave me a sheepish smile and then turned back to the eggs on the stove. They smelled gruesome, and I pressed my lips tightly together to keep from gagging.
The way he looked at me made me think he expected some sort of response. Congratulations, perhaps? Gratitude? A high five for quick thinking even while inebriated?
“Safe sex, you know?” he added. I didn’t even remember getting laid, let alone whether there was a condom involved.
“I have to go,” I repeated as I slid on one of my shoes and lurched for the other, one leg magically longer now, thanks to the four-inch heel.
“It was a mistake, wasn’t it?” Ron-or-Don asked. “You wish you’d never met me, don’t you?”
My head hurt. I massaged my temples with the fingers of one hand while I braced myself against the door with the other and slid my foot into the second shoe.
“I was drunk and so were you.” I was aware I wasn’t being kind and the poor bastard hadn’t done anything wrong. He looked at me in the harsh morning sunlight and more than ever did not resemble Murphy. What the fuck had I been thinking?
“Look, I’m sorry, I can’t stay. You’re a nice guy.”
That made him wince. I guess Others didn’t like being called nice. I had no time to figure him out. I didn’t want to figure him out. It did seem as if our roles were reversed. Generally, wasn’t it the guy who rushed out the door in the morning and left the girl to feel guilty and used? Or maybe I was being sexist. I didn’t have a clue.
“You know what? Can you tell me your name? Can you believe I forgot it?” he