Kat T. Masen

Will yells to the cab driver to stop at some building.

Having not paid attention to the directions we traveled in, I have absolutely no clue where we are. All the buildings look the same—tall and fancy—nothing out of the ordinary.

With his hand clutched around my arm, he helps me out of the cab, my feet stumbling onto the pavement. The night air is refreshing, blowing against my tired face and causing me to shiver momentarily.

“Are you okay to walk?” he questions with a frustrated stare.

I nod before my ankle gives way, and I fall into him again.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mumbles under his breath.

Pushing me through the main door, he wraps his arm around my waist to carry me since, for some reason, everything begins to spin.

Somehow, we ride the elevator up and to God knows what floor until we’re standing inside his apartment.

“So, this is your place.” I look around at the bachelor pad, noting the leather furniture which appears untouched. There’s a large white sofa adjacent to an unlit fireplace. Between them, there are a glass coffee table with books on it and a plush white rug which lays on top of the dark floorboards. I’m surprised he bothers to read. Adorning the walls is black and white artwork. I can’t seem to make out the images

The only thing I can note is that the apartment lacks color. “Such a man’s place.”

“I highly doubt you’ve been in many men’s places to make that judgment.”

The heat rises in my cheeks—what a dick. “I’ve watched movies. It’s as stereotypical as you can get.”

Suddenly, the room begins to spin, and bile rises in my throat. “Where’s your… your…” He points to the bathroom, and with only seconds to spare, I say goodbye to the multiple Cosmos I drank—the vile taste lingering in my mouth. Cradling the toilet, I beg for this to be over until it becomes evident that my hair and dress have been caught in the aftermath.

Stripping my clothes off, disgusted at the thought of my own vomit, I grab a towel and wrap it around me. Opening the door slowly, I call his name but beg him not to come over.

“Can I please borrow a shirt, and can you leave it at the door?”

I close the door again, my head spinning from the small movements. Pressing my head against the tiled wall, it offers some relief but only momentarily.

There’s a gentle knock on the door. “It’s here, and yes, you can use my shower.”

Relieved, I retrieve the shirt, then hop into the shower, desperate to wash my hair. The water feels like absolute heaven, the shower alone big enough to fit my entire economics class. I relish in the warmth, allowing it to caress my body, which feels incredibly charged. The bar of soap glides against my skin, but I stop just shy of my thigh and take a deep breath

Blame the Cosmos and the lingering effects of the alcohol. A small moan escapes me as I close my eyes and wash between my legs. My mind flashes to the dance floor, Will’s body pressed against my mind.

Shit, this is all drunk thoughts.

Stop. Now.

Quickly, I place the bar of soap back in the holder and run my hands through my hair one more time. I finish up, drying myself and placing his shirt on. Using my fingers, I comb my hair out.

The shirt is long enough to appear like a dress—black with some rock band logo on the front.

I put my heels on, wondering if cabs will take me back to New Haven at this hour. Staying here isn’t an option. I need to go back to the sanctity of my own room.

Exiting the bathroom, Will’s eyes fall onto my legs. His gaze is exploring my exposed skin.

“You plan to do what exactly in my shirt and your heels?”

“I don’t know, take a cab,” I mumble, wincing my eyes to ignore the pulse inside my head.

“I’m taking you to bed.”

“I don’t want to have sex with you,” I say, defeated. “Besides, you’re old.”

“I’m not suggesting we have sex. I’m ordering you to sleep in my bed because you’ll thank me in the morning when hopefully, your hangover is less than vile. And besides, you’re too young.”

“You’re not my dad.”

“If I were your dad, knowing Lex, you’d be flown back to LA and confined to