Chapter 12

An unbearable cherry-red glow burns through my eyelids. Aggrieved, they attempt to flutter open, but are thwarted by a thick crusty film.

Clumsily, I rub the gunk away from my eyes. A single, searing blade of sunlight pierces through the inkiness of the room. It’s coming from a crack in the shade. I suppose this beam has been wending its way across the floor, then the bed, for hours now. Only just this minute did it finally land square on my face.

Squinting, I strive valiantly to focus on the oversized neon digits of the clock-radio. 10:18 AM. I groan. Fuck, all I want to do is pull the cover over my head and die.

Abruptly, however, my stomach informs me I can’t do that. Staggering frantically into the bathroom on floppy legs, I get there just in time, and puke my guts out in very unladylike fashion.

When there’s nothing left, I lie down on the marble floor for a while, panting faintly, skin clammy. I could almost crash right here. However, my head is throbbing viciously, and my mouth tastes like the bottom of a cave where bats have been overwintering. Eventually I decide I’m not going to have any peace until I hunt up a glass of water and some Advil.

I sway precariously as I rise to my feet. A bout of lightheadedness washes through me, but I manage to weather it without toppling over. After it passes, I glance down—and take note, really for the first time, that I’m clad only in my bare skin.

This raises questions.

For one thing, I can’t remember returning to the hotel room. I close my eyes briefly, shuddering at the thought of that flimsy scrap of fabric I wore down to the bar last night. During my hasty sprint from the bedroom just now, I noticed that my handbag has been restored to its place on the sidebar. But there wasn’t any sign of the camisole.

Did someone from the club pocket it as a trophy? And if so, is it possible that Jamal and his buddies escorted me outside to his Escalade stark naked? Drove me around town that way? Surely they couldn’t have gotten a naked woman through the lobby of the St. Gerard, even at 4 AM? But who knows. Probably the doorman and desk clerk were bored out of their skulls, and glad for the diversion.

A ripple of shame and embarrassment oozes through my insides, as the insanity of last night comes crashing back into my mind. What the hell is wrong with me? Those things I did—they were dangerous, immoral, demeaning. Am I off my rocker? Did Mike’s infidelity break my brain?

I can’t think through this headache. Medicine will help. I fill a glass of water, down it in one go, and refill it again. Then I make my way back in the direction of the bedroom, and my purse, and the two extra-strength capsules I so desperately need.

Shuffling along gingerly, I realize that I’m walking slightly bow-legged. This prompts further stock-taking. I’m not sure it’s fair to say that my lady parts are exactly sore. Borderline call, I suppose. But at the very least they’re tender, and slightly swollen, and basically ill-disposed to any further copulation in the near future. And then there’s the cum. It’s everywhere. My vagina itself is still very soggy, but it’s the dried patches of semen, troweled on thick along my inner thighs and dotted just about everywhere else, that are truly shocking.

After I’ve popped the pills and washed them down, I peer into the full-length mirror to confront the carnage. It’s even worse than I expected. My eyes are absurdly bloodshot. The impact mark on my cheek is darker than last night, more noticeable, streaked with undertones of indigo. And as for my hair, it looks like Medusa’s snakes—thick, ropy clumps all cemented together with sperm.

Yes, to judge by the evidence, a half dozen or more of those guys at the club must have followed the lead of that flaxen-headed one (don’t tell me, starts with C ... Cole? Caden?), deciding to come on me instead of in me. They were terribly generous with their contributions, too, ejaculating copiously on my face, across my tits, in my hair ... Entirely crusted-over by this point, of course. Ugh.

When I was retrieving the Advil, I also took the opportunity to palm my phone; and now I give the notifications a quick scroll. There are about 10 texts from Mike. I bring up the first one. ‘I know you need time to process, but I just want to say I’m SO sorry. I love you. You’re my EVERYTHING. I will BE there tomorrow. I hope with all my heart that you come.’

Ohhhh fuck. Brunch. That goddamn brunch reservation I set up a million years ago, before my life collapsed into rubble. I’ve got to go—got to face up to Mike. I mean, I couldn’t possibly bail on him now, right? Not after what I did.

I flip through the rest of Mike’s messages with just a perfunctory glance. I’ve got the gist. However, I notice there’s another text too, from an unknown number.

Jamal’s number, apparently. I must have given him my info at some point. ‘Jess that was a motherfucking blast! I sent you a little memento don’t worry I won’t spread it around. Take good care of that envelope tho babe. I got u 1500 ea from those pricks, and told them they owe me a favor too LMFAO buy a nice car, you earned it. Text if you want to party again XO.’

Sent me a memento? Well, there’s an airdrop alert on the phone. It’s a video. A long video.

As it starts playing, my jaw falls open, my breathing deepens, my face gets flushed. Here in my trembling hand is a copy of the film Jamal and his guys were making. If anything, it’s even more intimate, more graphic, more high-def than I knew to be afraid of. They must have started recording earlier in the festivities than I realized as well—because thirty seconds in, there I am, bent naked over a table, and there Jamal is, fucking me from behind in masterful fashion.