Under Her(7)

By: Samantha Towle



“Oh, well, that’s okay then,” I deadpan.

“Why don’t we toast to Wilder finding a way to get rid of Morgan and get his job back?” Dom says.

“He hasn’t lost his job though. And wouldn’t that be more of a wish?”

“Are you two for real right now?” I stare at them both. “No toasts. And no fucking wishes. Let’s just drink, so I can try to forget about this shitty day and the even shittier day that I’m going to have tomorrow.” When Morgan Stickford comes into my office and invades it.

And, with that horrendous thought in mind, I pick up my shot and throw it back.





Jesus Christ.

My head is pounding.

And what the fuck is that noise?

Is that drilling outside?

I live on the twenty-first floor, and my windows don’t open.

How the fuck can I hear drilling?

I lick my dry lips. My mouth feels as dusty as Morgan Stickford’s pussy probably was in college.

Shit. Morgan. She’s coming in this morning.

What time is it?

I blindly fumble around for my phone on my nightstand. Only there’s an empty space where my nightstand usually is.

I get a sinking feeling right at the same time as I hear a soft groan come from beside me.

Rubbing my eyes before opening them to the muted light in the room, I turn my head, and on the pillow next to me is a mass of long brown hair with a face hidden beneath.

Where the hell am I?

Definitely not a hotel room. There are a selection of bras and panties hanging on the radiator, drying.

Clearly, I got wasted and ended up back at this chick’s place.

So much for only one shot. Fucking Cooper.

I need to get out of here and get back to my apartment to get ready to face Morgan.

I slide out of bed, careful not to wake my bed partner up. I can’t deal with the morning-after conversation.

I locate my clothes and shoes in a heap on the floor. I pick up my pants and feel my wallet and cell in the pocket.

I pull my cell out and light up the screen.

It’s eight thirty.

Shit.

And I have five missed calls from Chrissy and three from my mom, which is odd. But then again, I am usually in the office by now, and they’re probably wondering where I am. Especially with Morgan coming in this morning.

I need to get in the office ASAP. I don’t have time to go home and change. I’ll call Chrissy on the way and ask her to get my clothes ready. I keep a few spare shirts and suits at the office.

I grab my shirt and pull it on, not bothering to button it up, and I slip my sockless feet into my shoes. Fuck knows where my socks are, but I don’t have time to look for them. I creep out of her bedroom, through the apartment, and quietly let myself out into the hall.

I look up and down the hallway. I have no fucking clue where the hell I am. The only recollection I have of last night is doing body shots off some chick—I’m assuming the one I just left in bed.

I swear, I’m never drinking again.

Ignoring the pounding in my skull, I jog down the hallway and find the stairwell at the end. I’m on the third floor. I run down the stairs, my shirt flapping as I go.

Then, I’m in the empty lobby, and I go out onto the street. Stopping on the sidewalk, I look around.

Where the hell am I? Nothing looks familiar to me right now.

I spy a cab approaching, so I put my hand out to flag it down.

The cab slows at the curbside, and I climb in the back.

“Where to, buddy?”

“Stupid question, but where am I?” I ask the driver.

He chuckles and turns in his seat to look at me. “Rough night?”

“You could say that.”

“Well, it must’ve been a good one if you don’t know where you are. You’re in Arlington Heights.” He taps a finger on the sign on his dash. It reads Arlington Cabs. “Where do you need to be?”

“I’m in Arlington Heights? Jesus Christ,” I groan.

That’s about a forty-five minute drive out of Chicago.

How the hell did I get here?

I drag my hands down my face. “Look, man, I really need to be in downtown Chicago—like, about an hour ago.”

He gives me an apologetic look. “Sorry, buddy, but I don’t take fares out of Arlington.”

I lean forward in my seat. “I’ll pay you a thousand bucks to take me to Chicago and get me there in the fastest time.”

“It’s rush hour, man. The quickest I could get you to downtown Chicago would be an hour and a half, and that’s if we’re lucky. You’re looking at more like two hours.”

Two hours!

Fuck. My. Life.

“Fine. You get me there in an hour and thirty, and a thousand bucks is yours.”

His eyes light up with dollar signs. “You’ve got yourself a deal,” he tells me.

He puts the car in drive, doing a U-turn in the road.

I dial Chrissy. Tucking my cell between my ear and shoulder, I start buttoning up my shirt.

It rings once before she answers.

“Where are you?” she whisper-hisses.

“I’m in a cab, on the way to the office.”

“Please tell me you’re five minutes away.”

“I wish. More like ninety minutes.” If I’m lucky.

“Ninety minutes!” she screeches.

I wince.

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