by Wylde, Tara
MISS BEHAVE
Tara Wylde
Holly Hart
Red Cape Romance
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
24. Epilogue - Diana
1
J ames
Birds.
That’s what’s changed: I can hear birds. Feels like five seconds ago, it was four o’clock, and the gray drone of traffic was singing me to sleep. Good times—those were good times. Fuzzy times. Night was my buddy, then, spooning me sweetly, promising me protection from the grubby reality of dawn .
But now there are birds. And I’m cold. And I can smell someone on me—sweat that’s not mine, that one perfume that’s like...vanilla mixed with root beer ....
I gag a little. Lift my head. My cheek peels off the toilet seat with a wet-masking-tape crackle. Hurts bad enough I probe the tender patch with cautious fingertips. Skin’s raw, probably red as hell, but not broken .
What the fuck happened last night ?
I grind my knuckles into my eyes, blink hard, and let my surroundings swim into focus. I’ve seen worse: a linoleum floor printed with a fake tile pattern; a bathtub with no curtain; an old-fashioned free-standing sink, with runnels of something black and viscous spilling over the sides .
Oh, right. That girl—I helped her dye her hair. She wanted to look like...Said she was ....
The memory flits out of reach. I fumble for it—the chemical smell, the way my eyes watered...What’d we talk about, while we waited for the color to take? She had...She had those tight little elf-curls, sneaking out from under the dye cap, plastering themselves to her temples. Long nails with chipped silver polish. Glittering stars and moons on her cheekbones. Said her name was...was ....
It’s no use .
I stare into the toilet. The greasy puke-ring I’ve left round the bowl isn’t even the scuzziest thing here. Everything’s covered in a thin film of ick: nicotine-yellow, with brownish blotches. A network of water stains crisscrosses the wall, laps at the ceiling. There’s mildew along the baseboards, some kind of orange substance around the base of the sink. Looks...alive. Fungal. I drop my head onto my arm and entertain a brief fantasy of curling myself into the corner and letting the native flora grow over me till I’m nothing but a slumbering, mushroomy hump .
Did I even have fun last night? Was it good, before I got sick ?
I don’t remember that part. Did she sit with me, the hair dye girl? Rub my back, tell me it’d all be okay ?
This—this, right here—is my most hated hangover symptom: this miserable, soggy self-pity. This isn’t me. This isn’t —
Something else edges into my awareness, something unpleasant. Voices, coming from outside. One, I don’t recognize: low, female, bored. The other—that’s Tom. Must’ve called him. Don’t remember calling him. Don’t even remember being awake, before now. Did I do it last night ?
Guess it doesn’t much matter when I summoned him: fact is, he’s here. And he’s knocking. And knocking some more. And...knocking in time with my pounding head. How does he do that ?
“Keep your pants on !”
I glance down at myself: well, shit. Could’ve used my own advice. Got a wild hose situation down there. Snake on the loose .
Peeling myself off the floor hurts . My feet swarm with pins and needles, and my hips ache like an eighty-year-old’s. There’s something stuck to my knee—not just stuck, but pressed right in there—either a Sweet Tart or a pill, stamped with a smiley face. It leaves an angry red indent when I flick it off .
“C’mon, Jim! I know you’re in there!” Then, quieter, “Can’t you just open the door ?”
There’s that other voice again—brazen asshole’s trying to get housekeeping to let him in .
“I said one second! Christ!” I stagger out to the bedroom. And my pants would be ....
Well, not on the queen-sized bed, complete with Magic Fingers—can’t believe that’s still a thing. Looks like I couldn’t believe it last night, either, had to put it to the test. There’s quarters everywhere. The covers are rumpled, pillows piled in the middle of the bed. There’s a raft of Chinese food cartons in front of the TV, half-buried under a Blockbuster bag—and where’d that come from? Didn’t the last of those die with the Palm Pilot and the payphone ?
I feel like I’ve stepped through a time portal—Niagara Falls, 90s edition .
I’m really not seeing my pants .
And that knocking’s out of control .
“I said I hear you ! ”
Tom’s put-upon sigh drifts through the crack under the door. I hear him shuffling around out there, probably texting while he waits. Always got to be doing something. Like if he stopped being useful for a second, he’d drop off the face of the earth .
I hook back into the bathroom. No towels on the rack—why would there be?—but there’s one wadded up by the toilet. Must’ve been kneeling on it. It’s damp and clammy when I wrap it round my waist. I shudder so hard my stomach clenches, and I almost end up back on my knees .
Fucking Tom. Fucking impatient knockety-knock bastard. He needs to know—I need to tell him—this wet, smelly towel’s all for him. Could be flinging the door open au naturel, right now, like say hi to snakey, and yeah, that is lipstick— and maybe, just maybe, I’m still a little drunk .
I yank open the door, full of piss and vinegar and defiance .
And then it hits me, a wall of chilly air and wintry morning light. My eyeballs shrivel. My towel turns to ice. A wave of pure, ball-shrinking misery crashes over me, and I start to shiver. This...This sucks. It’s not fair. Wanted to greet Tom belligerently pantsless—You don’t like it? Suck on this! —but I’m shriveling, sour-mouthed, full of aches and pains. The cold’s taken hold of me, seized every muscle into a crampy, tired knot. All I want to do is rewind twenty seconds and grab the comforter off the floor. Or a sheet. Or not open the door .
Tom’s got me by the elbow. He’s murmuring something vaguely comforting. Guiding me to the bed. I think about standing firm, staring him down, but I’m already sitting. Letting him arrange the comforter around my shoulders. If I’ve felt this pathetic before, I can’t remember when .
“Get off me.” That came out whiny .
“I’m not on you.” Tom tips my head back with two fingers under my chin. “And don’t move. You’re bleeding .”
“Huh?”
“Just stay .”
I can barely make out Tom shaking his head from my awkward, tilted vantage point. He’s making that face, the one I hate, that long-suffering, too-saintly-to-judge bullshit that lets me know he’s not going to kick me while I’m down, but the second I get back up ....
“Here.” Tom plops something warm and wet into my hand. It’s toilet paper: a wad of warm, muggy toilet paper. “Wipe .”
I stare, bemused .
“Your nose, idiot. You’re all...Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He snatches back the dripping wad and starts dabbing at my upper lip, none too gently. It comes away brown with old blood .
“How’d you find me ?”
He dries my face with the back of his sleeve. The stiff wool scratches my nostrils. “You used your company card .”
Shit. That was dumb. I fight back a sneeze .
“Not just here, either. And I’m not the only one who noticed .”
I close my eyes. What did I do last night? I remember wanting to ride the AeroCar over the whirlpool—but it was closed for the winter, so we...So we started throwing things down the gorge. Beer bottles, mostly—and how they shattered and sparkled on their way down! Me, hair dye girl, and who else? Felt like a lot of us, or a few of us making a lot of noise, or —
“I mean, the Sundowner, really? What were you thinking ?”
Oh. Yeah. That’s where we ended up. Had a lap dance, I think, and some drinks—a lot of drinks. All the drinks .
“Hey.”
What was the rhyme, anyway?—Champagne before beer; you’re in the clear? Going to find whoever came up with that. Kick his ass .
“Hey! ” Tom’s snapping his fingers. Right in my face. “You listening to me ?”
“Mm....” I barely muster a groan. I’m starting to warm up. The comforter’s soft; the shag carpeting feels good on my feet. If I could lie down right now, if Tom’d go away, I could recapture that fuzzy feeling from last night. That soft, drifting, bunny-slippers feeling, just before I passed out. I could —
He’s shaking my shoulders, the jackass. “Stay with me. This is serious .”
I shrink away, tugging the covers around me. “This is Sunday ....”
“What?”
“I said, how serious can it be? It’s fucking Sunday—what can’t keep one da — “
“It’s fucking Monday ! ”
Oh.
Oh.
If this is Monday...Where did Sunday go? I grasp for it, come up empty. It was definitely Saturday when we tried to ride the cablecar. And we went straight from there to the strip club, so.... I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the pieces into place. Nothing happens .
“I—I’m...Am I late ?”
“Are you—of course you’re goddamn...Of course you’re late. It’s nine-thirty in the morning.” He crosses his arms. Lets that sink in for a moment. I can practically see the gears spinning in his head. “This is new,” he says, at last. “This is bad .”
“I know .”
It’s not just bad—it’s scary-bad. I haven’t missed work before. Not once in ten years. Even when I had appendicitis, I didn’t lie down till I fell down. And I kept working from my hospital room .
“Look, I’ve been keeping the shareholders off your back, but...Shit. Shit.” He’s massaging the bridge of his nose .
“What?”
“You should know, there’s an emergency meeting going on right now. It’s—your dedication’s being called into question. The morality clause wasn’t a big deal as long as you were getting results, but now, there’s a feeling — “
“Morality clause?” I know what he’s talking about, but...That was for real? It’s not like I’m—not like I’m groping women on trains, or pissing away the bottom line on hookers and blow. So I’ve been enjoying myself. Blowing off steam. Surely I’m entitled —
“Yes, Jim, the morality clause: y’know, the one where you don’t give Dovecote Biotech a bad name, and your investors don’t buy you the fuck out and sell your life’s work for parts ? ”
I feel hollow. “They can’t .”
“Yeah, Jim, they absolutely can, and if you — “
“No, I mean—there’s people—they....” The floor opens up under my feet, and I’m falling, spinning with sudden vertigo. I press my lips together and swallow hard. Think I might hurl .
“Jim?”
“The new protocol—there’s people who passed up other treatments, other clinical trials, people who....” I can’t go on. Any trace of that floaty, dozy feeling is gone. If this trial gets canceled, if people end up dying because I somehow misplaced a Sunday ....
Another weight joins mine on the bed. I feel Tom’s hand on my arm. “C’mon—hey. Hey. Don’t panic. I bought you some time. Told ‘em you’ve been having a tough year, with your dad passing, and the, uh, the complications with the D-5204 trial. Said you’d been talking about getting help, flying right—and you’ve had some great press lately, so that didn’t hurt .”
I can feel a but coming on. I don’t have the strength to fight it .
“This is your last chance, though. Seriously—look at me—I’m talking to you as your lawyer, now, and your best friend—one more incident like this and you’re staring down the firing squad. Especially if it makes the papers. Even the hint of a scandal, the slightest ripple — “
“Got it.” I hunch my shoulders. Want to block out what he’s saying, block out this whole morning. I’m definitely not drunk any more, not even buzzed, and what I wouldn’t give for an aspirin and a toothbrush !
“You should think about, I don’t know, getting yourself a girlfriend.” He bumps his shoulder against mine. It sends a shockwave of headache-pain-nausea all the way down my spine. “I mean, find yourself someone nice. Someone...respectable. The kind of girl you’d want to stay home with .”
“Mm....” Got to say, I wouldn’t mind a nice girlfriend right now. No, better—a nice wife, the kind who’d...the kind who’d stick by me for better and worse, who’d bring me chicken soup, strong coffee, massage my pounding head—hell, if she’d just sit with me through the night, it’d be a start .
Tom pats me on the shoulder. “Listen, I’d better get back, run damage control. Think you can drag your ass in some time before noon ?”
I nod, subdued. Can’t think of a single snappy retort. My sore head and sloshing belly seem to have claimed the last of my attention .
“Go home first. Clean yourself up. And take these.” He shoves a bottle into my hand: Advil, not aspirin—so I’ll have heartburn later, to add to my woes. Fucking Advil; indigestion in a bottle .
I force a smile, not to seem ungrateful. Tom tosses one last item in my lap on his way out: my pants. Not a clue where he found them. When I lean down to yank them on, I realize I’m already wearing—still wearing—my socks. One last memory breaks the surface, one I could’ve lived without: me, naked in socks, sprawled across the bed; hair dye girl laughing at the way the Magic Fingers made my half-hard cock bounce on my belly .
Fantastic.
2
D iana
Don’t let that be the guy. Don’t, nope—do not—don’t let that be him .
It’s him .
Of course it’s him .
This drowned-rat-looking jackhole peels himself off the curb the second I slow down. I’m tempted to accelerate over his foot. I don’t even have to crank down the window to smell the whiskey rolling off him .
I hate motel-strip pickups. They’re never good news, especially after Labor Day. Nobody comes to the Falls in November and snags a $35-a-night room because their life’s going great. This guy’s a prime example. He flops into my back seat like a bag of wet rice. Wouldn’t be bad-looking, if it wasn’t for his waxy-pale complexion, not to mention those great purple smudges under his eyes—and is that blood drying around his nostrils? Ugh .
I go easy on the gas. Feels like jostling this guy’d be a bad idea. Got to say, I’m getting good at this. I’ve got this whole technique for drunks, where I drive like they’re open jars of water on my back seat. Gentle braking, smooth acceleration, an eagle eye for potholes—haven’t had a puke incident in a month. Still, this guy looks rough. And he’s going all the way to Fonthill .
“Sorry,” he mumbles. I’m not sure he’s addressing me, at first: the rearview mirror tells me his eyes are closed. Might even be asleep .
I’m debating whether a response is warranted when he speaks again .
“I know I kinda stink .”
I steal another glance. He’s cracked one eye open, and is sort of smiling. He’s actually better than not bad—he’s handsome: shaggy black hair, deep brown eyes, chiseled features. Nice body, too. He hasn’t bothered to do up his shirt, and I can make out some nice pecs. Sculpted abs .
But—and it’s a big ‘but
’—he doesn’t just kinda stink. He full-on reeks. You could strip paint with those fumes. “What’d you do, bathe in grain alcohol ?”
He makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a groan. “Something like that .”
I decide not to tell him he also smells quite strongly of vomit and floor cleaner. He looks like he’s suffering enough. Besides, if I don’t make conversation, maybe he’ll go to sleep. I like it when they sleep. Lets me relax, concentrate on the road .
“What’s—what’s your name?” He kind of chokes, and swallows audibly .
“Diana. Hey, you’re not going to ralph back there, are you?” I root around under the passenger seat. My fingers snag a plastic IGA bag, which I toss his way. “Tell me if you need to pull over. But if you can’t make it, use that. I can’t afford...Just don’t .”
“Sorry. I’m not. I’m...I think I’m already empty.” He shakes the bag out, anyway. Just in case. Well, at least he’s considerate .
There’s something kind of forlorn about him, the way he’s scrunched into the corner of the seat, like he wants to vanish into the vinyl. I can hear him messing with the barf bag, twisting it this way and that .
“I’m James, by the way,” he says. There’s this sweetly hopeful note to his voice, like Can we talk? Am I bugging you? Don’t get that much with young guys. Most of them assume I’m there for their entertainment .
“Well, James, I’m going to get you home quick as I can, and you can have a nice long bath. Order in some hangover food. I could pick you up something, if you need.” Wait, what? Didn’t mean to be that nice to him! Can’t be puttering around Fonthill all morning, picking up this guy’s favorite hangover cures .
“Mm...Wouldn’t that be nice?” He’s got kind of an accent, something soft, Southern—Georgia, maybe, or Alabama. Definitely American. “It’s a quick shower and straight to work for me, though .”
