Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“Yes, sir. I’ll let you know when she’s available.”
I need a fucking drink and it’s only nine in the morning.
Shit.
Chapter Five
PEYTON
Sweet.
Jesus.
What is that godforsaken sound? Make it stop. Please, someone, make it stop.
“Gerrrrrrr,” I groan, rolling to my side, last night’s curls sticking to my face. “Stop the incessant ringing.”
Face planted into my pillow, I shake my fist in the air, asking for help from the heavens above.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
“I’m going to kill someone,” I grumble into my pillow. Last night’s alcohol breath hits me hard, tossing my head in the air, hair curtaining the sides like blinders.
“Whoa, toothbrush, stat,” I say to no one in particular.
Pounding out of control, my head throbs with every ring. Pound. Pound. Pound, tossing my stomach into unwanted somersaults. And just when I think the noise will never end . . . it does.
“The Lord has risen,” I praise, sticking my head back into my pillow, a muffled hallelujah followed shortly after.
Too much booze last night. Way too much.
So much that I can’t remember a damn thing other than shoving two pieces of popcorn up my nose and snot-rocketing them across the table into Gen’s drink.
God . . .
Welcome to thirty.
Ring.
Ring.
“Oh, for the love of God.” I lift my head trying to find the noise when I spot my phone on my nightstand.
Who the hell is calling me?
I reach over and attempt to yank my phone from the charging cord, but end up pulling the entire cord out of the socket. At least I had the sense to charge it last night.
Pushing the accept button, I bring it to my ear and mumble, “What?”
“Peyton?” Gen’s voice rings through the other side, worried. I don’t blame her, my “what” sounded like I grew a pair of balls overnight.
“Yeah, what do you want?”
“Uh, did you call in sick today?”
“What? No . . . what are you—”
Oh. Fuck.
“Oh Fuck! What time is it?” I scramble out of bed, my strapless dress pulled down on one side, exposing my right breast to any neighbor who might be looking through my windows. The phone cord dangles, hitting me in the stomach.
“It’s . . . nine?”
Oh no.
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.
Being late to work is not tolerated. It’s in the detailed and very well-laid-out employee handbook, and right now, I’m looking at being at least half an hour late.
Running around my apartment, I strip down, not caring if anyone sees me naked at this point, and run to the bathroom where I turn on the faucet and start dousing my body in water, letting it cascade down to the tile floor, an impressive feat since I’m still on the phone.
“Has anyone noticed?”
“A few people asked where you were. I told them you were in the bathroom with tummy troubles.”
“Jesus. Okay. I’ll be out in ten.”
“Pey, we have to—”
“Can’t talk, need to drag the dragon off my tongue that’s lighting up my breath. See you soon. Have coffee at my desk, I pray you.”
I hang up and wet a washcloth, soaking it quickly and rubbing it all over my face. No time for anything else.
I throw my hair up in a messy bun, dab my eyes with some mascara, and then put on the first thing I see in my closet.
Headache or not, I need to be to work, NOW.
* * *
“Holy hell, did you even look at yourself in the mirror?” Gen asks me, walking beside me with my cup of coffee as we make our way to my cubicle.
“No. Why? Do I have bags under my eyes?” With my index finger, I dab under my eyes, bringing life back to my face. I looked in the mirror for a second, saw I resembled the day of the dead, and decided looking in the mirror wasn’t for me this morning.
From Gen’s reaction, maybe I should have taken a second gander.
Gen’s eyes widen, pure horror all over her face. “I think you should go to the bathroom.”
I pause, scared not only from the way Gen is looking at me but from the way everyone around us can’t take their eyes off me.
Swallowing hard, I ask, slightly panicked. “Is it bad?”
Whispering from the side of her mouth, Gen says, “I’ve seen prettier women of the night.”
Women of the night? What the . . .
Is she talking about . . .
Hookers?
Shit.
Taking a detour, we both head to the bathroom, Gen trailing closely behind as I duck my head, trying to avoid everyone’s stares.
It can’t be that bad, right?
When I turn the corner into the bathroom, the first thing I see in the reflection is the Working Girl costume I bought two years ago, a brown belt cinching the oversized suit dress to my waist.
Horrified, I move my gaze to my face. A ripple of shock shoots up my spine when I take in last night’s lipstick smeared across my cheek, mascara dotted all over my cheekbones, and a fake eyelash plastered across my forehead.