“Goddammit!” I yell, startling Trudy. I slam my tight fists against the mattress.
“Why are you so mad? You looked like you were having a good time, and considering I just woke your ass up ’cause you were moaning, you were having a pretty good dream too.”
But it wasn’t a dream.
My fingers skate along my skin where he left his mark. Once again, it’s sensitive to the touch, but of course, there are no marks to prove it. Because he’s not real. I fight a wave of tears, the unbalance of my mind becoming too much. I shake my head. “I think I’m losing my mind.”
Trudy sits up, throwing the covers off her legs, and jumps out of bed. “We’re about to lose our seats on the plane if we don’t get up and hurry. We’re running late. Our flight leaves in an hour.”
I put my confusion aside and we scurry around, gathering our minimal things, and check out of the hotel. The ride to the airport is quiet. Trudy is fighting off her hangover, while I fight off the memories of last night. My confusion turns into anger. I swipe away tears of frustration. Not realizing Trudy has taken notice of my unleashed emotions, she squeezes my hand for comfort.
“Things will get better, girl. James won’t always have this effect on you.”
Little does she know this has nothing to do with James and everything to do with a man who doesn’t exist.
We board the plane, this strange ease washing over me. As if the farther I get away from this city, the more cognizant I feel. My mind becomes clearer. As we land in Florida, any sort of sensation caused by the drugs or my fake lover has completely vanished.
“So glad to be home. I may be hungover for a week. Definitely not going back to New Orleans any time soon,” Trudy says, stepping off the plane.
If there is one thing I agree on, it’s never going back to that city. Or doing drugs. Drugs are bad.
8
One week later…
I’ve been home a week. My hangover is still sticking around. Remind me never to get roofied again. Thankfully, the drugs wore off and so did any lingering sense of my drug-induced lover. Every time I close my eyes, I’m met with darkness, but that’s all that greets me. Which is kind of a shame. I could use more of what he was selling: hot, wicked, wild sex.
I sigh, adjusting the couch pillow as I lay, watching TV.
I won’t lie and say I haven’t closed my eyes and commanded to be haunted by his smoldering silver eyes. Sadly, he never comes. I may not feel his presence anymore, but that doesn’t stop me from aching with the thought of his penetrating stare. No matter how hard I try, how desperate and sexually deprived I become, he doesn’t appear.
Real or not, I miss his touch. His tantalizing voice. His ruthless promise. Instead, I settle for the fading memories. And now, I’m finally admitting I’m just bat shit crazy.
I met a guy who wasn’t real and he took me on the ride of my life.
Drugs are whack.
“Honey, I made you some lunch.” My mom sticks her head out from the kitchen, waving a knife covered in peanut butter. If there’s one thing that’s kept me going, it’s those damn peanut butter and Doritos sandwiches. My mom wants me to never find a man with the weight I’m gaining putting those suckers down.
I grunt, throwing my feet off the couch, pause my shameless romance flick, and meet my mom in the kitchen.
“Thanks, Mom.” I take a seat at the table, accepting her gigantic glass of strawberry milk.
“So, honey, I have some exciting news for you. Glenda from bunko told me her company is hiring. The marketing department just lost someone because she had a baby and they’re looking to fill her position. I thought you would be perfect for it, so she gave me her contact information for you to submit your resume.”
As much as I’m enjoying holing up on my parent’s couch eating my favorite childhood sandwiches and plowing through every cheesy romance movie, it does sound refreshing to get back to reality—a job, showering regularly.
“Sounds great. I’ll give her a call.” I take a bite of my sandwich and moan. Damn, it’s just as tasty every time. The phone rings, and my mom excuses herself to answer it while I take down the rest of my lunch. My mom really should consider selling this idea. Probably make a bazillion—
“Honey, it’s for you.”
I twist my head. “For me?” Who the hell would be calling me on their house phone? I shovel another bite into my mouth and stand, taking the nineties receiver still mounted to the wall. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon. Is this Katie Swanson?”
“One and only. Can I help you?”
“Yes, this is Maribel Richards from First West Bank. I’m calling in regard to the three credit cards you have open with us.”
Oh, great. Here we go. “Yeah, so I actually closed those and spoke to someone at your bank about a payment plan. I’m kind of in a money crunch and unemployed at the moment.”
“Well, actually, we’re calling about that. It seems, Ms. Swanson, there was a glitch in our system. Our records show the credit card numbers were fraudulently used. We’re very sorry. This should have been caught by one of our staff sooner.”
“Uh, say again?”
“It’s very unheard of that this happens, but it seems these credit card accounts were being used by accident. We have a system in place that creates test accounts and uses them for test purchases as a way to make sure the bonus points structure is a success. Strangely enough, the system, when creating a fake account, matched up to your credit cards. Like I said, this has never happened before
