Page 11 of Legs

Not his ass. My ass. Oh, God. Still clutching the towel around my chest, I scooped up my clothes and purse and ran from his room, falling to my knees the second I was out. I dumped the contents of my purse on the floor, and snatched up my phone, all the while whispering, “God, no. Nonononononono. Please, no.”

But there was no undoing what I’d done.

I pulled up my sent emails, and there it was, what might as well have been a neon billboard that said "You Are So Screwed." I’d emailed my sexual-harassing boss a photo of my butt crack with the subject line: Shove your crappy job where the sun don’t shine.

Holy mother of God.

Stupid alcohol and that stupid resolution to quit my job. Even worse was that Bad Boy must have taken the photo, because my two hands, each holding up a middle finger on either side of my butt crack (seriously?), couldn’t have snapped the selfie to end all selfies.

Unfreakingbelievable.

Never again would I drink a glass of wine. Not a drop. Never let Reckless Rachel out to play. Bad Boy should never have happened. I should never have made that wish.

What the hell am I going to do?

I stared ahead, not seeing a thing. Shock leached my energy. Hunching lower and lower, I spun the possibilities, anything to undo what I’d done. Set fire to our office building? Divert attention from my idiocy by instigating World War Three? Enter the Witness Protection Program?

It was Saturday, and my boss never worked on weekends. In fact, he’d mentioned having issues with his server, something about incoming messages disappearing…which meant he wouldn’t have seen my ass yet. He might not see it at all. The room swayed, a slow undulation—the wine still swimming through my veins—but my spirits rose.

All was not lost, yet.

Still queasy, I lay on my back and shoved my feet into my jeans, wiggling to get them done up. Once dressed, I folded Bad Boy’s towel and hung it over the end of his leather couch, taking in my surroundings for the first time. His bedroom may have been on the messy side, but the open kitchen/living room was simple and neat. But not homey. His white walls were harsh, not a photograph visible; only a couch, coffee table, and TV filled the space. There wasn’t even a dinner table or chairs.

The starkness was sad.

I’d made it clear this was a no-strings affair, but it was odd leaving him in bed, sleeping, this lonely apartment all he’d wake up to. No thank you note. No kiss goodbye. After he’d snapped that shot of my ass, and whatever had transpired between us, I’d never be able to meet his eyes anyway. Better to forget this ever happened.

As soon as I made it to the street, I pulled out my phone and called Gwen. Ainsley often worked on weekends, shopping for her clients. Plus Gwen’s “I know the bartender” was partly responsible for this fiasco.

Three rings later, she picked up. “Please tell me he was an epic lay.”

“I would, if I could remember what happened.”

“How much did you drink?”

“A buttload.” Which was an actual measurement of wine. A butt or barrel of wine held precisely one hundred and twenty-six gallons. Apparently when one drank a buttload they sent shots of their butt into cyberspace.

I cringed.

“Did you go shopping for dildos again?”

I was in no mood for her teasing. “Hilarious, but no. It was a thousand times worse than the dildo.” People jostled me as I scoped the street and realized I was only a few blocks from my place. Funny how I could live so close to a man as hot as Bad Boy and never have run into him. “I did a bad thing, and I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I need you to talk me off the ledge.”

I spilled my shame as I walked home, prompting Gwen to laugh for a solid three minutes. “That,” she panted between breaths, “goes down as one of your more epic drunk sprees. I still don’t understand how you could have forgotten the entire sexcapade, unless he wasn’t good. Then it’s for the best. But what a waste of a one-night stand.”

“That’s the least of my problems.” It was like she hadn’t even heard the part about my butt crack sent to my boss. At least focusing on that horror allowed me to ignore Bad Boy’s participation in my fall from grace. Mortification to the nth degree.

I stopped in front of my apartment, the sidewalk bending under my still-inebriated gaze. “What if my boss gets the email? What will I do?”

“Move to Siberia.”

I giggled, even though there was nothing amusing about this situation. The giggle grew, an uncontrollable laugh quaking my body, culminating in an unattractive snort. My world was about to come crashing down, and I had to squeeze my knees together to stop from piddling on the street.

“You really are still drunk, aren’t you?” Gwen’s amusement didn’t help.

I was still drunk. And anxious, the latter responsible for my mad cackle—aka my nervous laugh that was a cross between a wheezing emphysema patient and a two-year-old giggling at a fart joke. Gwen and Ainsley loved to get me going, if only to witness The Cackle in action.

“Yes,” I said, my laughter under control, my anxiety unfortunately not. “Definitely still drunk. And freaked out.”