Sage

Sage

Iwoke up the next morning a little hungover and a lot tired. It wasn’t just the two Jamesons I had last night before the douche bartender caught on to my fake. It wasn’t even the one I had after that despite him catching on to me. It probably had something to do with the mid-grade tequila shots I did before even going out as a pregame. Tequila and I have always had a love-hate relationship. I love it, but it hates me.

I mean, upside if I puke, I can skip my hot yoga class for this week I guess.

Slowly, I push my covers to the side, peeling myself out of bed before making my way over to the bathroom. I feel a slight ache between my thighs, and flashes of last night come to the forefront of my mind. God. That was fun.

He thought I didn’t know who he was, which is fine. I wasn’t really interested in getting to know Trevor Michaels or anything. I grew up hearing my dad ramble on about him ever since he played for Brighton University. Last night I was really only interested in what he could do for me, though. Which turned out to be a free drink and a couple of orgasms, so I’d say he was an hour or so well spent.

I think he expected me to stick around, turn into a stage-five clinger or something, but that’s not me. I’m not naïve enough to think men want anything more from me than enough time to get it up and get off. The few that do want more, I end up having to let them down. I’m not built like that, I don’t do feelings and relationships and all of that stuff. Not anymore.

It’s kinda weird to be back in Seattle. I was born and raised here, and though I was only gone for a little over two years, it feels like a lifetime ago. My dad was happy to help me get settled back in Seattle, after he gave me a three-hour lecture about how he was right and I was wrong, which was just a ball of fun. But after I endured that painful dinner, I left with an apartment leased in my name, a good-paying job, and a second chance. One I don’t plan on wasting.

I begin washing away the smeared makeup from last night when my phone buzzes with an incoming FaceTime. I glance at who is calling before I answer as I continue washing my face.

“Bitch, did you forget to take off your makeup again last night?” Calista cackles through the phone.

I shoot her an irritated look before I roll my eyes. “Fuck off. I didn’t get back until late.”

“Ooo,” she says with a waggle of her eyebrows. “Did you finally break that dry spell of yours and get some dick?”

I raise an unimpressed eyebrow at her as I begin moisturizing.

“I wouldn’t necessarily call a week a dry spell, Cal,” I snark.

“I would. That’s a fucking lifetime.” She laughs as a family sitting behind her looks at her in disdain.

“Will you quit talking about dick in a coffee shop? You’re traumatizing children,” I laugh.

She shrugs, seemingly unbothered as she adjusts her leather cut. Well, technically it’s her man’s, but still.

“So, how are you?” she asks, her voice lowering and tone softening.

I start to give her a bright smile before it slowly fades. I’m an excellent liar, a great bullshitter. Not with Calista, though. We practically lived together for two years. She knows everything about me. The good and the really bad.

“I’m better. Just a little—”

“On edge?” she questions.

I roll my lips together and nod. I watch as her eyes dart around the coffee shop before she leans closer to the phone, dropping her voice to a full-on whisper.

“He hasn’t talked about you in a few weeks. Hammer said he’s been strangely calm about the whole thing. He’s even had Britt practically glued to his cock.”

I swallow roughly at that as I nod. Hammer is Calista’s husband and probably one of the only good ones. He’s always treated me like a sister, always tried to help when he was allowed to, but unfortunately, he couldn’t always protect me. Britt is one of the club girls who would constantly hang around, always hoping to be more than just a way to kill time for the guys. I never cared for her but to hear that she’s been linked up with him actually makes me feel sympathy for her.

“I like the black,” Calista says, very horribly transitioning topics.

I run my hand through the box-dyed hair and nod. “It’s definitely better than the blue.”

Calista wrinkles her nose up at the reminder. When I dyed my hair robin egg blue, it was cute for all of two days. Then it faded into this gross blueish green and practically fried my hair. I had to stop dying it for months just to get some length back. I’ve always changed the color of my hair, practically to any color of the rainbow, usually just depending on my mood. Before I left, though, I knew it was time for a change—a less recognizable one, just in case.

“I’ll call you soon, okay?” Calista says.

I nod. “Make sure you delete our call history, just to be sure.”

“Always,” she sighs. “I miss you.”

My heart pangs at her words. Calista is almost twelve years older than me, but it never felt like that. She wasn’t just a best friend. She was like a sister. It almost killed me to leave her behind, knowing that I may never see her in person again. I knew I didn’t have a choice, though.

“Miss you too. Talk soon,” I say, emotion clogging my throat as I speak.

She gives me a sad smile and blows a kiss before the call ends. Blowing out a tired breath, I glance up to look in the mirror, my hands white knuckling the porcelain sink as I stare at myself.

Twenty years old, and I swear to God I’ve already lived enough life to be in my early forties at least.With that depressing thought in mind, I go about my morning routine before heading to the store to load up on supplies for the week.I won’t have time soon since I’m starting work on Monday. Not sure what to expect from the job in all honesty. It’s a great opportunity, but it isn’t exactly my passion. I think Dad just gave me the job because he saw the others hiring in that position and thought he’d jump on the trend. Whatever, I’ll ride it out while I can, save as much as I can and then get on my feet and the hell out of Seattle.