14. Sophia
Chapter 14
Sophia
A few minutes earlier
I wake up with a jolt, feeling as sick as a dog who was poisoned by an evil cat.
Where the hell am I? Why do I feel so hungover and yet also drunk?
As soon I look around and spot my scattered clothing everywhere, it all comes back to me in a rush: the bar, Mason’s fist grabbing a handful of my hair, and—relatedly—all the orgasms.
Speaking of… where is Mason? Did he leave me by myself in his place? That would be pretty odd.
Then again, I should be glad he’s not here. Things would be infinitely more awkward if he were.
Maybe I should take advantage of his absence and get myself the hell out of here?
Yes, I should.
Determination and adrenaline clear my brain enough to allow me to get up from the bed. All right. I locate and put on my bra, ignoring the hickey on the side of Socrates.
Where are my panties? I search high and low but don’t find them. Fine, whatever. I put on everything else before I return to the mystery of the missing panties. I look around more thoroughly, but still, I can’t find them anywhere.
Maybe I should leave them behind? No, that’s weird. Then he’ll have a memento of the night I would rather us both forget. Besides, I’m feeling a little too vulnerable without them.
I look around again.
What the hell happened to them? Did Mason eat them last night? There is such a thing as edible panties, and we were pretty drunk.
No.
I think I’d remember him acting like a freaking goat.
I strain my brain and call forth a vague recollection of him ripping the panties off me at one point. Unfortunately, all that does is make me feel as though they’d melt anyway if I had them on right now.
I scour the room once more. Even if the panties were damaged by Mason’s rough treatment, they should be here somewhere, right? The guy is strong, but he’s not strong enough to break panties into atoms and scatter them in the air.
I kneel and look for them under the bed.
Nope.
I move the nightstand away from the wall and look behind it.
Zero panties.
Could they somehow have gotten under the mattress? Things did get pretty wild, so it’s theoretically possible. Heaving with effort, I lift the mattress as much as I can, but all that accomplishes is the mattress sliding from the bed and hitting the floor with a deafening thud.
Fuck me. If Mason hasn’t left the apartment, he’ll be here in a second, and I’m not ready to face him—or explain why I was checking under the mattress like a thief from back in the day when the banking system did not yet exist.
Grabbing my shoes, I beeline for the bathroom and make myself presentable as I ponder how I ended up making such a monumental mistake.
I blame the alcohol, obviously, and his competitiveness… and mine. What I try not to think about is how much I enjoyed what happened because that was also just the alcohol, right? With enough tequila, even a scarecrow might start to look fuckable, much less the sex-on-a-hockey-stick that is this man.
Midway through my bathroom activities, there’s a knock on the door.
Fuck me.
The voice is deep, sexy, and unwelcome. “Sophia, are you okay?”
“I’m peachy,” I shout back. “The mattress just slipped.”
What are the chances he accepts that and leaves?
Apparently zero, because when I finish and stealthily open the door, there he is, looking so mouthwateringly hot that I’m tempted to go for round two.
Wait, am I insane?
“Are you stalking me by the bathroom now?” I snap, as angry at myself as I am at him.
“What?” he asks, frowning, then winces.
I should be glad he’s also suffering, but the opposite is the case. “Forget it.” I take a breath to clear my head. “I’d better go.” Before I somehow end up in his bed again, or on that mattress on the floor. Or on the carpet. Or the bare floor.
The temptation is shockingly strong.
“Wait.” He gestures toward said mattress. “Are you positive you’re okay?”
Is he mocking me? “Of course, I’m not okay ,” I grit out. “I never should’ve slept with you, that’s for starters.” Understatement of the century. “I also shouldn’t have let you convince me to drink all that tequila.”
He does a double take. “I convinced you?”
“Whatever.” If I’m honest, maybe I played a bigger role in the tequila debacle than I’m willing to admit—and worse yet, maybe I used that as an excuse to end up in the exact situation we’re in. “I’m leaving now. Don’t you dare follow me.”
There. I stomp out, but a part of me—granted, that same insane part that wants more orgasms—hopes he doesn’t listen and chases me down.
But he doesn’t.
Which is good.
Right?
When I’m outside, I take out my phone and see a million texts from Richard.
Shit. Yet another blunder: after he gave us a ride to the stadium, I let Richard wait for us, then got drunk and forgot all about him.
I scan the messages guiltily. They start off being merely politely inquisitive, then slowly become more and more panicky.
I call him right away and spend a good fifteen minutes reassuring him that I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere, and that I could use a ride.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” he says, still sounding relieved that I’m not dead.
“A minute?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m still near the stadium.”
I’m the worst. “Did you sleep in the car?”
“Yeah, but it’s not a problem,” he says. “Just tell me that you are okay next time.”
Next time? There are walks of shame, but it seems I’ll have a ride of shame. “I’m so sorry,” I say earnestly.
“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he says again and hangs up.
There will not be a next time. If there’s any chance I might go out and get drunk, I’ll take an Uber.
Wait.
I did ride something I dubbed Uber last night.
A blush spreads over my whole body at the memory.
How mesmerized was I by Mason’s cock that I forgot that the word Uber is already in use?
Well, I’ll use Lyft from now on, or Richard. I doubt I can “ride an Uber” ever again. Not without getting wet.
Then something else occurs to me. It just might be Richard’s fault that I called Uber “Uber.” Richard wants everyone to call him Dick, and he’s my ride service, so maybe, subconsciously, I’ve begun to associate dicks with car rides?
As it so often happens when I think about the subconscious, the philosopher in me starts to ponder questions such as, “Can you prove that people besides you are conscious?” An even more interesting one is: “Are animals conscious?” If they are, what about flatworms? Some flatworms tear themselves in half when they want to reproduce, and then those halves regrow the lost body parts to become two flatworms, with apparently intact memories. What happens to flatworm consciousness during such a process? If it’s retained, it means body parts can have a consciousness, and if that is the case, it makes me wonder if Plato, Socrates, and Uber are conscious.
A car honk distracts me from my philosophical musings, so I reluctantly climb into Richard’s car and spend the ride home apologizing.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Abigail demands during lunch on campus the next day. “Don’t skip a single detail.”
Yeah. Sure. That last bit isn’t happening, but I do give her a PG version of the events, glossing over how much I enjoyed myself. Despite my censorship, Abigail listens with a worrying expression on her face, like either her brain is about to explode or she might have an orgasm vicariously.
“So what’s next for the two of you?” she demands when I finish.
“Nothing.” No selling him the team and no Uber rides for me.
She waves away my words like she would an annoying fly. “Has he called you?”
“He has.” And I’ve ignored his incessant calls, as well as the texts, and even one email—and that last one was weird because I don’t think I gave him my email address.
Abigail’s face sags. “You didn’t answer him, did you?”
“And I won’t. Don’t even try to talk me into it.”
She looks at something over my shoulder, and her grin reminds me of what Spike might look like if he ate a canary. “What about talking to him face to face?”
I follow her gaze.
Fuck.
Headed our way is Mason, and he is holding a lunch tray with his big hands looking too much like fists for my comfort.
“I’ve just remembered I have to edit a paper.” I leap to my feet and rush out of the cafeteria as if I were the aforementioned canary and Mason were Spike.
I’m so overwhelmed by the near-miss that I’m wide awake in Professor Ambien’s class, which is bad. Ambien sucks so much as a teacher he almost makes me dislike philosophy. In that, the lecture reminds me of the scene from A Clockwork Orange where the anti-hero’s eyes were clamped open for aversion therapy.
As Richard drives me home after class, I check my phone and find a few more messages from Mason, my favorite one being:
Running away? How very mature.
He’s got a point. I should face him and calmly explain that I don’t want to see him, but I can’t bring myself to do that, and not just because saying that would be a bald-faced lie. I think a part of me is afraid I’ll end up having another orgasm.
“You should eat your dinner,” Richard says, meeting my gaze in the rearview mirror.
Ah. Right. There’s a lunch box next to me, and when I open it, I find the chef’s latest masterpiece: crepes with Nutella and berries, with bits of egg, ham, and cheese.
As I eat it, I realize I’m quickly getting adjusted to my newfound wealth—and not just gastronomically. Over the past two weeks, I’ve gotten to know the staff and figured out an efficient way to run my household. Thanks to Abigail, I have a firm grasp on some of my investments—the exception being the hockey team, but even that seems to be running itself for the time being.
As we pull up to my mansion’s gate, I spot a person loitering nearby. I recognize her immediately, and the temptation to pretend I’m not in this car is very strong.
“Who is that?” Richard asks.
I sigh. “My mother.”