Thank you for reading, and if you ever do find yourself in Thomas, you really must go to The Purple Fiddle. I insist.
by V. J. Chambers
“You turned off my alarm!” I screamed at the half-naked guy in my bed. I was pretty sure I’d known his name last night when we’d stumbled through my apartment door and collapsed back here. I was pretty sure. Hadn’t I called out something while he was pulling off my clothes?
On the other hand, now that I was thinking about it, I didn’t think the sex had actually been that good. I’d had to tell him at least five time to be more gentle, and he hadn’t listened. At all. I’d call him Rough Hands, since I couldn’t think of his name.
He raised his head sleepily from the pillow. Yuck. Had his hair been that greasy last night? Had his nose been that big?
Ugh. Why did I do this to myself?
“It was loud,” he said. “And I’m trying to sleep.”
“I told you last night that I had to get up early, didn’t I?” I was holding the alarm in my hand, still staring at the numbers. It hadn’t sunk in how late I was.
“What’s the big deal? So you blow off class.”
I pushed aside the covers, reached for a night shirt on the floor, and pulled it on. “Not class, you moron. I told you that. I told you it was important.”
He put the pillow over his head. “That thing about having to go drive to a phone to talk to your dad? I thought you were making that up.”
Panic shot through me. “I told you that?” How drunk had I been, anyway? I got out of bed. The minute I was upright, my head started pounding. Okay. That drunk.