Page 4 of Her Pucking One Night Stand

I’m such a moron.

I could run blindly to some random place and try my job hunt in person there, but what guarantee do I have that recruiters will find me any more attractive as a possible hire than I am now? I’ve been putting my resume out there for months with only this one carrot being dangled in front of me. A carrot that’s vanished like it never existed. What would I do if, after spending all I have in my secret bank account, I came up empty in a few weeks?

So, I can’t leave. The simple notion of staying with Dean makes me physically ill. The weight of my mistake lands on me like a boulder, and again, I find myself tipping off my feet in reaction, this time on a bench.

Scents waft over from the assorted airport restaurants, and the ebbing and flowing of traveling humanity hurries everywhere around me. Yet even as a customer yells at the top of his voice, a baby screeches from another nearby bench, and the endless scrape of luggage wheels roll past me, it’s like none of this is real. I’m stuck in indecision.

Rooted here.

Trapped.

The only reason I’m able to pick up the phone is because I'm desperately looking for an out.

“Leighton?” I croak into my cell, but I’m barely audible, even to my own ears.

“Ava?” My name is a question filled with caution. “Everything all right?”

“No,” I say. It’s all I can manage.

“Where are you?”

“The airport. California fell through,” I mumble.

I’m not even sure if any sound comes out at that point. It’s like I’ve been transformed into a piece of stone, but one that might crumble into nothing at any second.

“Stay put. I’m on my way.”

3

AVA

I honestly don’t remembermuch about Leighton showing up to save me from the airport. Nor do I recall any details about the trip back across the city. In my mind, I’ve gone to a strange place where I can’t seem to retain any new information. It isn't until she drags me onto the subway platform that it hits me—we've been riding on the same underground system I've used for years, yet somehow, it feels entirely different.

“Come on.” She half-shoves me across the cement and down the block. I blink, recognizing the nearby sights.

“He’s been cheating on me, too,” I blurt out. I don’t know why.

“What the actual fuck?” she scoffs. “He’s such a little shit.”

“I know. I can’t even get into the details right now.”

“And even if I really wanna know, I don’t want you to tell me. Not today. Tonight’s only mission is to get you in a happier place, and then we can deal with the job situation tomorrow.”

“Right,” I sigh. “Are you taking me to your bar?”

“Yep.”

I peek up at the huge neon yellow letters announcing the name Bigelo’s to the block. It’s an apt enough name since her boss, George Bigelo, owns and operates the place.

“Why?”

“Why do you think?” my bestie asks me like I’m being a bonehead, and since I kind of am, I just nod.

Drowning my sorrows seems as reasonable a solution as any at the moment. Since she’s an employee, she and anyone with her get half-off drinks, so this won’t break the bank. Besides, shutting my brain off for a while sounds like the best idea ever.

My turmoil eases—or, more accurately, it gets drowned as we knock back shot after shot. I usually drink with Dean, but it’s lighter fare like beer and wine. This tequila, though, leaves my mind numb and my body floating. By the time the hour passes, I’m pleasantly polluted, dancing with Leighton like it’s the only thing that matters.

As often happens when two single women who aren’t making out with each other hit the dance floor, the supply of eligible bachelors increases exponentially. I can’t even count how many men have sidled up, pressing their bodies first behind us, then against ours. It’s amazing that, even though Dirty Dancing is practically ancient, some of these jokers still think they can win women over with the same crotch-to-ass moves.

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