Chapter 1

Chapter

One

I wake up sprawled on the floral rug in my apartment, legs askew, hair tangled in a lopsided ponytail that looks more like the matted tail of a dog than a twenty-one-year-old's coiffure. Groaning at the beeping of a garbage truck backing into the alley outside my apartment, I flop onto my back, the motion snagging blonde strands of hair that have somehow managed to twist themselves into a knot around a hook meant to hold my blouse together.

"Ow," I whine, fumbling with my fingers to undo the tangle and quickly giving up. With a yank, I rip the strands from the hook and sigh, cracking open my eyes. I hate Mondays.

From the other room comes the sound of my roommate's miserable hangover, the heaving and hacking making me cringe. My stomach roils, and my head lolls to the side, giving me a perfect view of the underside of the couch. I stare at the dust bunnies hiding like fuzzy little demons. They glare back, taunting me with their ability to procreate faster than I can suck them up with a vacuum. The thought of the resulting headache vacuuming would induce means the dust bunnies win this round. Giving them the finger, I gingerly twist my body to the side and grab the edge of the couch, levering myself into a sitting position. The room spins, and I groan, gritting my teeth against the ensuing nausea.

"Fuck me." Shafts of sunlight slip through the blinds, nailing me in the eyes. "Goddamn margaritas."

Saliva floods my mouth, and my guts twist as colorful images and smells of the sweet mixed drink fill my mind. Leave it to my roommate, Lily, to choose something that comes in a pitcher. Not to mention the extra shots on the side. I stopped counting after five.

I want to crawl under the sofa and curl up with the dust bunnies, letting them multiply until they smother me. When the smell seeps from my apartment, the cops will find my body swaddled in a cocoon of gray fluff. The headlines will read: Eden Banks, brutally mauled to death by dust bunnies.

I chuckle at the mental image, immediately regretting the action and groaning in misery. My head buzzes with echoes of music and sweaty bodies bumping and grinding. Shot after shot parade through my mind, making my stomach burn. It was a night of celebratory birthday debauchery.

At least I didn't go home with the bartender. He was hot. I think. My mouth curves in a wobbly smile as I try to picture his face. It turns into a grimace as I recall leaning over the bar, my boobs practically falling out of the ridiculous top Lily made me wear.

Grumbling, I rub my stomach, my guts churning like a bubbling cauldron. Clamping a hand over my mouth, I shift to my knees, breathing deep and slow, willing my body to resist the urge to purge. Vomiting is one of those things I have no tolerance for. It's up there with guys who are into feet and the word moist.

Closing my eyes, I concentrate on breathing, forcing my stomach to settle. Bile slides back down my throat, and I shudder, squinting when Lily staggers into the room and plops onto the sofa.

Her short, brown hair stands on end, mascara smeared at the corners of her eyes. The Rolling Stones tee-shirt she wears, with its red lips and tongue lolling out, makes me blanch, and I avert my eyes, fisting my hands in my lap as my stomach gurgles.

Lily groans and rests her head on the back of the sofa. "How did we get home? Did you call an Uber?"

I still, flipping through a haze of blurry memories. An image of a sleek black car rolling through the streets of Portland flits through my mind, but I can't hold onto it. "I don't know," I croak.

Fuck, it hurts to talk.

"Want coffee?" Lily asks.

"Yeah." Although getting up and walking into the tiny kitchen feels insurmountable.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to the hum of traffic outside. When I finally feel like rising won't make me retch, I heft myself up and stand for a moment, waiting for the room to stop spinning. My black skirt is bunched around my full hips like a wadded-up diaper. I consider tugging it down, but that feels like too much effort. Shuffling to the kitchen, I prep the coffee machine and grab a couple of mugs, then keep my hands splayed on the counter and head hanging down as the machine burbles and hisses.

Something in my peripheral catches my attention. It's a long, yellow sheet of paper. Huh. I cock my head, squinting to read the text. Dragging it over, I pick it up and rub my temple, scanning the heading. What the fuck? I read it twice, the throbbing behind my eyes doubling as my beleaguered brain processes what I read.

"No, you didn't," I whisper, reading the remainder of the text. My legs wobble, and I slowly spin around, letting my body slide to the floor. My eyes slip to the line at the bottom of the page where my sloppy signature sits, scrawled like a condemned criminal.

Head spinning, I suddenly recall snatches of conversation, a pen in my hand, and a glossy black car picking me up and taking me home so I could make arrangements. Pack my things. Inform my boss. Because in two weeks I'll be leaving. For the Pleasure Academy.