Page 184 of Happy Hour

“Jameson Riley.”

Mike laughed. “Like in Jameson Riley the Winston Cup driver?”

I wanted to punch him in the face for acting as though I wasn’t good enough. With all my bitchiness, he was lucky I didn’t.

“Yes,” I snapped rolling my eyes. “Jameson Rileythe race car driver.”

Mike began nodding his head in an arrogant way that really made me want to punch him. Mallory, his saving grace, appeared before I could go around assaulting the drivers.

“Hey Sway—I need you to go control Emma.” Mallory ordered breathlessly. “She’s rearranging the office and something about repainting.”

Mallory, Mark’s only daughter, was good people. I would hate for her to quit over Emma, or my shitty attitude these days. Malloy began working for Charlie shortly after Mark took the job seven years ago. I loved her and even though she was ten years older than me, we got along great. I absolutely loved her husband Bryce; he was amazing. Bryce was no Jameson but he was a pretty cool guy.

So I definitely wanted her to continue working here.

I laughed at Mallory describing what Emma was doing on our way back up to the office.

“You should have never left her in there alone.” I finally told her.

It was a late night at the track but eventually we managed to wrap everything up and head home where I once again, fell asleep as soon as I was in bed.

Sunday morning I woke up with Emma in my bed.

“How did you get in here?” I asked harshly. “I locked the door.”

Emma shrugged, blowing off my rudeness. “The window,”

“What are you spider woman?” I attempted to roll over but stuck to my sheets. “Why are we all sticky?” I could see Emma’s skin glistening.

“I...spilled something.” She replied softly. “I think.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she avoided my penetrating glare like the plague. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Emma?”

“Sway?”

“What. Was. It?” I seethed.

“Uh...I should...go check on the twins.” She bolted for the door. “I think I hear them in my room.”

“Emma!” I yelled after her.

Glancing around the room, it was trashed. It looked like someone hosted New Year’s Eve in Times Square in my bedroom. “Emma!” I screamed again.

Still no response. Killing her seemed like a grand idea. And as I looked more closely around the room, the idea got grander.

When I moved, I stuck to the sheets like one of those flytraps. No matter how I moved, the sheets moved with me.

What the fuck is this shit?

It smelled like alcohol but I couldn’t be sure. It was crusty and sticky and in my hair, on my body. It strangely resembled...nah...it’s not that, or was it?

It had better not be that!

I got out of bed, wrapping my bathrobe around myself, in search for Emma. I found her, in the bathroom, washing her own hair.

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