“I have-a work in the morning.”
Send “I have work in the morning,” and I’ll write my character taking the Walk of Shame out of your character’s place after a one-night stand.
When she finally cracked opened her eyes, disgruntled and disoriented, the first thing she noticed was that her mouth tasted dry and fuzzy, like she had swallowed a hairball. She groaned and rubbed her face with fever-hot hands, wondering what in the hell she had gotten up to last night. She remembered wandering into a bar, already drunk and looking for a fight—or a fuck. Apparently, she had found the latter.
She shifted over, lifted herself up on to her elbow, and peeled back the sheets to give her a glimpse of last night’s fuck-toy. Well. He had a great body, but that wasn’t really a surprise. Even drunk, she knew what she liked; slimmer builds, dark hair, a goth or goth-wannabe in the making. They were usually desperately hard for girls like her, willing to do anything for a fun tumble. The guy shifted, giving her an eyeful—nice—before she let her eyes travel back up. He had a surprisingly lack of tattoos for the kind that usually hung around Mo’s old place.
When she finally saw his face, she felt sick. Like she was gonna hurl. She muffled a scream, dropped the sheets and hung her head low onto her arm. Shit, shit, shit, fuck, no, hell! Largo. Of fucking course.
How did this happen? Maybe he’d drugged her drink or something. Maybe it had been dark and she hadn’t seen his face, maybe he’d dropped the fruity-ass accent, or maybe she’d just lost a bet. One way or the other, she wasn’t sticking around to hear it.
She slipped out of the sheets, and searched the room—her clothes were too fucking scattered to deal with right now.
But his were in one nice little pile. Finder’s keepers, bitch.
She slipped out the door of GeneCo Tower wearing Pavi’s clothes in as street-punk a fashion as she could manage with the tight (tight on her, Christ, how did he fit into them?) silver pants.
Never. Again.
