Cowboy Baby Daddy

I can’t quite be certain with the amount of distraction going on at the moment, but the woman on the phone sounded kind of drunk.

Oh well, verbal contract and all that. Right now, I’m more interested in watching as Buzzed Girl places one of her thighs over Yoga Chick’s shoulder while Yoga Chick, straddling me in what amounts to a modified version of the splits, holds her roommate in place with both hands on the latter’s ass and proceeds to go down on her.

All things considered, life is pretty great.

Chapter Three

Resolutions

Leila

My head hurts.

I lie in bed for what feels like an hour before I gather enough courage to open my eyes.

“Mike?”

There’s no response.

The brightness of the tiny beam of light that’s made its way through the blinds is pinning me down and keeping me sightless. I’m not even sure where or who I am right now.

After what feels like another hour, I manage to sit up and scoot over to the side of the bed.

If this is what a hangover feels like, I can’t begin to imagine how anyone in the world has ever decided that getting drunk twice is a good idea.

I did something stupid last night, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was.

I’m in my own bedroom. There’s no one in here with me.

That’s a positive sign.

Still, there’s that heavy pull in my gut that tells me I’m going to regret something just as soon as I remember what the hell happened.

I’m naked. Somehow it’s taken me this long to realize it.

I’ve never slept naked in my life. I’m way too uptight to feel comfortable without some sort of clothing on my body at all times; showers and sex excluded, of course.

I lean toward the floor and feel my pants pockets for my cell phone, but it’s not in them.

After the long, nearly impossible task of standing up, I check the rest of my room, but the phone’s nowhere to be found.

Not knowing if there’s anyone sleeping on the couch, I wrap myself in my bathrobe before I open the door.

Empty.

I would think that something happened with Mike last night, but I’m confident that he’d stick around for a while if that were the case. Then again, that would be weird enough that I might never see him again either.

Huh.

I give up on the phone for a while and try to remember what cures a hangover. Apparently, though, even thinking hurts.

Coffee, whether it’s going to help or not, sounds like a great idea right now, so I head into my kitchen and start a pot. The clock on the microwave reads 11:36.

“Great,” I mumble to myself, “even after getting hammered, I still can’t sleep past noon.”

I was trying so hard to be one of those derelicts who throw caution to the wind and, whatever.

There’s a knock on the door, and I’m almost at the peephole when I realize what I did last night. It’s worse than I could have imagined.