The Truth

“Tiff? You okay?” she says, and I swear she’s picking up a British accent. All that damn bangers and mash just soaks in. Or maybe they put it in the tea? “You sound drunk as hell.”

Fuck. She laughs, completely unaware of my predicament.

“No. I sucked down a pink monster dick,” I reply before wincing. I know that’s not it, so I shake my head to make the letters work better, but that makes my right eardrum jump out of my skull. “I mean, drink. Not dick. No dick sucking here. Just a drink. Oh, and a donut. A big round one with little bitty rainbow sprinkles. So cute, so tasty, but sooo bad.”

Elle giggles in my ear. “I forgot how funny you are when you’re drunk.”

“Not funny. So fuh-cucked. Ace is gone.”

“What?” Elle is instantly serious. “What do you mean ‘he’s gone’?”

“He took Harper to the country to do it. Big secret, though. Shh!” I hold a finger up to my lips even though she can’t see me.

“Do what?” Elle asks. “Dick her down? Is that supposed to be the secret?”

“Nooo . . . no dicking. Hmm. Actually, that might be involved too. But I mean the proposal.”

Elle gasps and then shouts, “Oh, my God! He’s proposing to Harper?”

“Shh!” I hiss, both because she’s gonna ruin the surprise and also because she’s being so loud right in my ear. But then I ruin the librarian impersonation with another hiccup. That one was a bad one. It almost became . . . wet.

“Ewwuhh.” Elle sighs. “Do you have a ride home?”

There’s a moment of silence, and I realize . . . oh, I have to answer her out loud. “Bartender says he’ll get me a cab. But I don’t want to take a cab by myself like this. I’ll end up on Newsweek. Poor Tiffany Young, beloved friend, sister, and daughter, found murdered in a landfill.” I feign a news anchor voice, or at least the best I can manage right now.

Elle laughs but argues, “You’re not going to end up in a landfill. A dumpster, maybe, but not a landfill. But we do need to get you home safely.”

I’m usually the one who helps everyone else, and I’m really not liking that Elle is taking care of me this time.

“I know! You should call my dad.”

Of course Elle would say that. Her dad has always been there for her, the quintessential good guy who takes care of her unconditionally. He’s the best father in the world.

But he’s not my dad.

“I can’t do that, Elle. He’s my boss. That would be morti-shi-fying, and career suicide.”

“Tiff, please. He knows you, and he knows that you’re professional,” Elle argues. “And he’ll be discreet. He won’t say a word past checking that you’re okay on Monday.”

I sigh, knowing she’s right. Daniel Stryker is that sort of good guy.

That sort of best guy.

Which is the real reason I don’t want him to see me like this. But I don’t really have any other choice. It’s that or a sleazy cab driver dude who might kill me and will definitely overcharge me.

“Okay, okay . . . I’ll call him.”

“Okay, babe. Be careful, okay?”

“That sounds funny when you say it over and over. Okay . . . okay . . . ohhh-kaaay.”

“Tiffany! Call my dad,” Elle orders.

“You don’t have to yell. I will, I will. Love you, bish,” I growl before hanging up.

I hate this, which makes it extra hard as I open my contacts and call Daniel. Because I hate, more than anything, looking like a stupid little girl in front of him.

He picks up on the second ring. “Hello . . . Tiffany?” There are questions upon questions loaded onto just my name, but I can’t focus well enough to answer any of them properly.

“Mr. Stryker . . . Daniel . . . I . . . I . . .” I start before realizing I’m on the edge of drunk crying. Shit.

“Tiffany, what is it, honey?” Daniel asks gently, and I wonder how deep he wants that answer. To save what little self-respect I’ve still got, I keep my answer shallow.

“I’m at a bar, The Den,” I blubber. “I’m . . . I’m pretty shitfaced, and I already told the other girls to go home, and I don’t want to get a ride with a serial killer! I don’t want to go to the landfill. It probably stinks there.”

“Tiffany, deep breath,” Daniel says quietly, his voice helping reassure me, and I do as he says, breathing in and out. Once he hears me settling, he asks, “Where in the bar are you?”

“The bathroom,” I admit. “I don’t want people to see me like this.”

“Good,” Daniel says, still quiet and warm but taking control and using what I call his Dad Voice. Which I hate, because I don’t want to hear his Dad Voice directed at me like I’m a kid.