Chapter 9
Nine
Louise
Dragging my ass out of the car, I haul my costume bag out of the passenger seat, along with a to-go fountain drink and paper bag of fast food I’d picked up on my way home, before pushing the driver’s door shut with my hip.
I cannot wait to get these pins and plastic flowers out of my hair and to take down this braid. My scalp aches abominably.
Sometimes, on nights like this, I very seriously contemplate chopping my hair off. Taking it up to the shoulder, something super drastic.
I always chicken out, once I’ve convinced myself crashing out isn’t in my best interest and chopping eighteen inches of hair off isn’t the badass decision I think it would be.
This party dragged on for hours. They were late getting started, which meant I had to stay later, and then they asked if they could pay me extra to stay even longer. Of course, I said yes.
It had been a day.
Louise and the Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.
I had kept my professional face on through the entire event, but now that I’m home, I don’t want to pretend anymore. And even though it’s only seven in the evening, I’m toast.
Stick a fork in me, I’m done for the day.
I’m touched out, peopled out, all of it. I want to get my hair down, eat my shitty fast-food dinner, and take the hottest, longest shower known to mankind. And then I’m going to put on my comfiest pajamas and doomscroll on my phone until it’s appropriately late enough to go to sleep.
Walking up the pathway to my door, I’m fumbling through my purse trying to find my keys when the to-go cup slips out of my hand, the flimsy plastic lid tearing clean off.
My cherry-cola dumps into the paper bag, and then the bag rips straight down the side, dumping my food and ice-cold soda down my leg, into my shoe, and all over the front step.
It’s the final straw in my awful day, and the tears that burn my nose and slip down my cheeks are ones born of rage and overwhelm.
“You have got to be fucking shitting me,” I whine, not even caring how pathetic I sound, or who might be within hearing distance. This day can choke on a bag of dicks. I stare down at the mess of my dinner, now strewn all over the patio.
I was so excited about that burrito, too.
Sighing, I leave the mess where it is and finally unlock my door and step inside. I’ll come back for it. Right now, I need a shot. Or three.
Dropping my bag onto the floor by the counter, I reach for the cabinet over the sink, pulling down a half empty bottle of tequila from one of mine, Willow’s, and Liv’s margarita nights.
I don’t know where the shot glasses are still packed, so I unscrew the top and tip the bottle directly to my lips, taking a swallow.
I shudder, my face twisting, and goose bumps break out over my entire body, including pebbling my nipples. Tipping the bottle to my lips again, I take a second swallow, then cap the bottle and put it on the counter.
I’m halfway down the hallway before I start tearing the pins and faux flowers out of my hair, dropping them into the basket on my dresser. As soon as the last pin and flower are out, I unravel the braid. Then I strip out of my clothes, letting them drop where they land.
Completely naked, I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower before padding back down to the kitchen.
My face is already feeling warm after the first two shots, my fingers tingling deliciously.
Fuck it. I uncap the bottle and bring it to my lips one more time, taking another swig of the alcohol.
My face doesn’t twist in a grimace with this shot, but my nipples harden all over again as goosebumps flash over my now naked skin.
Taking the bottle with me back to the bathroom, I leave it on the bathroom sink and step into the shower beneath the spray, letting the scorching water rain down over me entirely.
It takes me a good twenty minutes to thoroughly shampoo and condition my hair, then rinse it completely.
My face is next, washing it of all the costume make up until I feel slightly more human.
Stepping out of the shower, I wrap myself in my fluffiest towel and pad back into the bedroom to put on some pajamas. I need to brush through my hair, detangle it, and get it braided before bed, but I simply don’t have the energy to right now.
My stomach growls, reminding me that I lost my dinner and have had several shots of tequila on an empty stomach. I’m also reminded that I still have to clean up the mess out on the patio. Before that raccoon I’ve seen hanging around in the backyard gets into it.
Stomach growling again, I consider door dashing a replacement dinner, but first, I need to clean up that mess.
Once dressed in a pair of cheeky panties and a t-shirt that’s several sizes too big, I wander back out to the kitchen and grab the broom and dustpan, heading for the front door.
Rustling on the other side of the door halts me though and I groan, kicking myself. I left it too long, and now that damn raccoon is out there after all. Eating my fucking burrito!
Fuck. My. Life.
Taking several courage bolstering breaths, I get ready to use the broom as a weapon, and then fling the door open wide, shouting, “Rarghh! Get out of here, you little trash panda!”
My entire soul leaves my body.
Because it’s not the raccoon.
No. It’s soooo much worse.