Chapter 4 Near-Death Hangover
The sound of my phone ringing ping pongs in my skull.
“Shit!” I sit up with a start, the covers bunching at my hips. Quickly, I tap to answer and bring the phone to my ear, ignoring the throb in my head. “Hello?”
“Cheeks?” Dax asks, his voice full of worry. It doesn’t have the same effect when he’s using my stage name like a pet name. “You okay? I've been calling you for over an hour now.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Though, to be honest, I don’t think I am.
My whole body is sore, and my eyes are burning.
I’ve got a bad case of cotton-mouth and there’s no water in my room anywhere.
I did drink last night, but I’m sure I didn’t drink enough to cause a blackout.
Sitting up, I put my feet on the floor and take a deep breath.
The world is spinning in a terrible way, and I can’t find my axis.
“You’re late,” he says matter-of-fact, pulling me back. He sounds irritated.
“Yes, I can see the clock. Thank you.” Tripping out of bed, I search for decent clothes among my discarded Halloween costume pieces; the losers.
As I sift through them, my head feels like it could cave in at any minute.
It’s like someone pushed me down a steep set of stairs or hit me with twenty baseball bats.
Gods, I’m fucking sore! What the hell happened?
Dax doesn’t say anything at first, but I can hear the wheels turning. Before I continue my search, I put him on speaker and set the phone down. I need both hands to pick through the discarded mess of clothing and accessories.
“Hey,” he says, somewhat calmer. “You’re not still mad, are you?”
I perk. “Mad about what?”
He groans. “Don’t be a dick, Millie.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Stripping off the long shirt I wore to bed, I return to my shit pile of clothes. After some serious eyeballing, I spot something promising among the many tights and thongs.
“Look, if you’re already over it, cool, but we can talk when you get here. Alright? I hate feeling like I hurt your feelings.” He does sound miserable, and despite being an asshole 24/7, I know he’s being sincere.
“Okay.” I pull out a couple of options and hold them to my chest. “We can talk later.”
The sigh of relief he breathes is palpable. “Great. So, when can you get here?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I can put Trish on for you.” He hesitates, then says with some hope, “Unless you can be here in the next hour?”
“Yeah, I think I can make that.” Tossing the clothes on the bed, I go to my panty drawer and withdraw a red, lace-trim thong and slip it on to settle above my hips. It’s throwing me off not knowing what happened last night. I don’t usually go to bed without underwear.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “You sound like you’re running a marathon.”
“You’re telling me. I feel like I ran one!”
“After last night, I’m cutting you off after two shots again,” he says with a dry laugh.
“How many did I have?” One shot is okay, two is questionable, but any more after that? That’s bad news. He and I both know what I’m like when I’m not totally sober.
“More than enough.” He doesn’t sound happy. “I thought you were gonna relapse.”
I press my lips together and try not to flinch, even though he can’t see me.
Low blow, but it’s not like I can take offense.
He’s seen me at my lowest of lows before, which was about seven months ago during the post break-up phase.
My relationship ended abruptly after four years together.
I was a wreck. If I wasn’t listening to my Type O Negative vinyl collection and crying on the floor, then I was drinking and fucking my way around mutuals.
Admittedly, not my finest moment, but I’ve made significant progress.
“No relapse, just stupid decisions. I promise.” I suppress a pained groan as I wiggle into a pair of fishnets. “Anyway, I’ll call a Zippy driver now and see you soon, okay?”
“Okay, see you soon.”
The line goes dead, and I slip on the black one-piece I pulled from the pile at my feet.
It isn’t my favorite piece, but the neckline is generous and makes my tits look great.
Win-win. After I’m dressed, I fly to the bathroom and do a quick once-over.
The remnants of my make-up from last night are pretty bad, so I work on scrubbing it off.
My skincare routine will have to suffer until after this shift, and while I would love a hot shower to ease my aching body, I don’t have the time.
With the speed of an Olympic runner, I apply a heavy layer of moisturizer and a light layer of cover up over my pale skin.
I touch up my eyes with mascara and rub a red lip oil over my dry lips.
Picking up my brush, I run it through my tousled emerald green hair and spray it down with dry shampoo, fluffing it with my fingers.
Some of last night’s curls have kept their shape, so I spritz hairspray over the ends and then pin half of it to the side.
It’s days like these I’m grateful for the shorter length.
“It’ll have to do.” Once I’m at String Theory, I can do more with the extra make-up bag and curling iron I’ve got in the dressing room.
I run back to my room and throw on a gold, layered chain necklace, and slip on some heels.
After I’m dressed, I open the Zippy app and call for a ride.
I’ve got plenty of time before it arrives, so I head into the kitchen for a snack.
Just as I’m grabbing a rice cake and peanut butter, my phone buzzes on the counter with a text from one of the girls.
VERITY: Ronnie is here.
My stomach drops. Ronnie? She’s never at the club. Even when we were together, she hated being there.
ME: What?? Why??
A picture comes through a second later. It’s blurry, but it looks like Ronnie and another girl decked out in white.
Another photo comes through, and it’s much clearer than the first. My eyes go wide, and I physically feel like my jaw could hit the floor.
The girl in white, standing hand-in-hand with my ex, Ronnie, is Lilah.
I’m rooted to the spot. Lilah was once a true friend, and also a former String Theory dancer.
She started shortly after me, but then quit a few months back. I had no idea she was dating Ronnie.
ME: Lilah?! Really??
VERITY: I heard about it… just wasn’t sure :(
ME: Gods… that’s just… I mean, good for her…
VERITY: Weren’t the three of you close?
ME: Sorta.
Guess they were closer.
VERITY: They’re engaged… bachelorette party tonight.
The snack I’m eating turns sour on my tongue, and I’m suddenly regretting getting out of bed.
ME: You’re serious?
VERITY: Dead.
My jaw tenses. Ronnie and Lilah, engaged, and they’re celebrating at String Theory.
I can’t tell what I’m more upset by. The engagement, or the blatant way they’re flaunting it at the club.
The one place Ronnie refused to step foot in.
I can’t even remember the number of times we argued about it, too.
She wanted me to quit, to work for her as one of her office secretaries, and I wanted her to stop being so judgmental about dancing.
Quitting the job I love because someone else couldn’t accept me for what I do wasn’t what I wanted in a relationship.
It was a hard pill to swallow when she broke it off, but I did it with my head held high. The crashout came a couple days later.
VERITY: I’m sorry, babes.
I set my phone down and clutch the kitchen counter, staring at the picture.
With each steady breath I take, I feel myself getting calmer.
Past my anger, I can see that they’re actually really cute together.
Lilah is grinning, and Ronnie is looking at her the way she used to look at me.
They’re in love, and that’s okay, right? I take a deep breath.
I wasn’t ready, I remind myself. I didn’t want to leave the club yet. I like dancing too much to give it up to be a ‘suburban wife.’
A couple more messages come through from Verity, but I don’t want to look at them.
I can’t. I close out of the messages and let the feeling sink in.
Back when I was in counseling, I would have to talk myself through all the positives of our breakup.
Even if they were negative. I try to do that again and remind myself that what matters is our happiness.
Ronnie got what she wanted; I got what I wanted.
She gets the picket fence marriage she’s always dreamed of having, and I still get to twirl around a pole in my panties.
“Well, well,” a voice says, “if it isn’t my new favorite snack.”
Startled, I look up from the counter, promptly dropping my phone to the ground as my hand goes limp.
A pale man with mussed dark hair stands in the frame of my kitchen doorway, taking up the entire space with his height.
Long lashes frame two perfect dark brown eyes.
They narrow playfully. “Why the sour face, sister?”
I can’t move.
Hell, I can’t even get my voice to work.
I'm cornered in my own kitchen by a man wearing one of my club shirts and a pair of too tight sweats. It should be comical, in all honesty, given that my shirt is like a crop top on him. I’m too horrified to laugh, though.
Did I fuck a stranger last night? Why don’t I remember that? Dread settles in my gut.
His brows pull together, the humor sapped from his face. “Are you—”
Finally, my voice catches up to my shock. “What the fuck!”