No, no, no, my brain screamed its denial, even as I took stock of my naked state, the discomfort in my ass that had nothing to do with falling on it, and the itch of dried come on my stomach.

I closed my eyes in an attempt to block out the inevitable, but little flashes of the night before played on the back of my eyelids like a movie—the party at the agency to celebrate landing the Goldman Athletics account, way, way too much champagne, followed by flaming Sambuca and the vague recollection of someone losing an eyebrow. I lifted a hand to my face, relieved when I discovered that that someone wasn't me—small mercies indeed.

But the memories were coming thick and fast now—stumbling out of the building with Reese, arms wrapped around each other in mutual support, laughing at jokes that only schoolboys and really drunk men could possibly find funny. Deciding to share a taxi home, even though we live in wildly opposite directions.