Page 48

Twenty

Is it possible to still feel hungover four days after you’ve gone on a bender? Must be because I’m almost thirty. I feel dreadful. I spend the rest of the weekend not only wallowing in shame over how I behaved on Friday night — God, kill me now — but also throwing up everything I put in my mouth. To the extent that I had to put in a day’s leave yesterday. And let’s not even talk about how I look. My hair is a mess, and I have bags under my eyes. I’m also tired. All. The. Time. Perhaps it’s my punishment for embarrassing Jamie and playing with his dick like it was a slinky, complete with sound effects. God, what was I thinking? He’ll never come back to us as a client, and quite honestly, I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye after the way I behaved. I’ve been avoiding Oakley’s calls all weekend, and she kept asking me what happened with Jamie, but I didn’t have the courage to tell her. I guess I’ll have to tell her something now when I get to the studio. I chose not to travel with her this morning, just to give myself a bit more time, but the cab comes to a stop just outside the studio, and I know my time is up. I pay the driver and get out, stopping on the sidewalk until the swaying sensation stops. I take my time walking up the stairs, aware that we don’t have our first client for at least another hour. Oakley’s busy gathering material for a new dress, but stops in her tracks when she sees me.

“You look like shit, how much did you drink on Friday night?” she says in lieu of a greeting. I can always trust my best friend to be honest. Even when it’s brutal.

“I feel like shit,” I reply. Even my voice is hoarse. I remove my glasses and blow out a breath. “Why did no one put a warning label on whiskey?”

Oakley puts her material on her work desk and turns to face me. “The better question is what happened with Jamie, and why have you been avoiding my calls since Friday? It’s Wednesday!”

“Technically, that’s two questions,” I reply, hoping to stall this inquisition.

“Don’t sass me, Channing.” No such luck. “Let’s start with Jamie, and what happened with him?”

I cover my face, and groan. “I totally humiliated myself, and him, on Friday night. Like, I don’t think he’ll ever order a suit from us again.” We aren’t hurting for clients, far from it, but that doesn’t mean I want to run them off, either.

“Is that why I had to tell him you’d drop his car off at his office on Saturday morning? Because he wasn’t too thrilled.”

“In my defense, he was in total denial about having whiskey dick.”

Oakley quirks a brow. “I doubt that’s the whole story.”

I brace myself. “Okay, fine. We both got wasted, and when we went up to his room, we…” I launch into recounting the events of Friday night, and by the time I’m done, Oakley is leaning against her work desk for support. She’s laughing that hard.

“You,” she breathes out, “and his,” she breathes in, wiping her eyes, “whop whop.” She laughs all over again, and I honestly don’t know what to say to her right now. When she gets like this, it’s better to leave her until it passes. I cock my hip and wait for Oakley to stop wheezing.

“Are you done?”

She shakes her head, her laughter so hard it’s the silent type, and when she snorts, then I know it’s a game over. I throw my hands in the air and walk over to my work station. I spy Kalon’s and his sons’ suits hanging on the clothing rack, and idly wonder when he’s going to fetch them. As if conjured from my thoughts, Oakley saunters up to me, clearly done with her fit of laughter, and says, “Kalon and Tala are coming to fetch their orders.”

That gives me pause. I haven’t seen Kalon since I spent the weekend at his house, and I don’t know if I want to see him. Or even Tala, for that matter.

“When?” I ask.

“In the next hour or so.”

“Are you going to mind if I skip that and go to the pharmacy? I’m still feeling sick.” Truth. It’s the hangover and puke-a-thon that just won’t fucking end.

Oakley’s expression changes, and she goes from not-serious to serious. “Sure, but are you okay?”

“I just need to get something for my headache, and my nausea. I think I might have gotten something while we were in Cape Cod.”

“You have to get something to catch something,” she snickers, “And it doesn’t sound like you got anything.”

“You’re hilarious,” I deadpan. “Can I go now?”

“Okay, but you’ll probably miss Kalon and Tala.” I give her a look, and she says, “Right. You don’t want to see them. Got it.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m out the door and walking to the small pharmacy a few blocks over. I give them a list of my ‘symptoms,’ and the pharmacist makes a concoction of stuff that’s supposed to help with rehydration and nausea. While I’m there, I pick up some razor blades, some tampons, and take my time paying for it. I will do just about anything to stall for time, and hopefully Kalon and Tala will be gone by the time I get back to the studio. The Fates are not on my side, because as soon as I’m approaching the studio, I spot Kalon’s Porsche at the Kirk with its hazards on, and Tala coming out the doors, her arms laden with garment bags. Kalon hops out to help her and does a double take when he sees me. I slow my steps until I reach them.

“Channing! Hi!” Tala greets, her smile strained. Maybe Kalon told her I ended things.

I give her a small wave. “Hi.”

“Channing.” My name on Kalon’s lips makes me feel all kinds of things, none of which I’d like to name right now. My heart rate picks up, and the urge to fan my face is strong.

“Kalon.” We stare at each other and don’t move for what feels like eons. I can feel him watching me from behind his Aviators. He’s also in a plain t-shirt, and jeans, which is enough to have me doing a double take because the man doesn’t know the meaning of casual. Unless it comes to relationships. Obviously. Just then, a garbage truck drives past and the stench makes my stomach roll. I gag, putting my hand over my mouth. The odor lingers, and when I gag again, my hand is ineffective at stopping my stomach from tossing up my meager breakfast. Tala and Kalon are, unfortunately, standing too close, and my puke lands on Kalon’s shirt, and all over the garment bags. Tala looks horrified, and throws the garment bags at Kalon before she herself starts gagging. She disappears behind the car, and I hear her retching. Kalon looks dumb-struck. And I lose it. I start crying because, fuck, this just can’t be happening. The studio doors open, and Oakley pokes her head out. She takes in the scene and rushes to my side.

“I’m sorry,” I sniffle, reaching for a tissue in my purse. My cheeks are hot with humiliation, and I wait with bated breath to see what Kalon will do.