The Way to Game the Walk of Shame

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To my dad, my number one biggest fan.
I miss you every single day.
Con thương bố nhiều lắm.

1

{Taylor}

Before I even opened my eyes, I knew something was wrong. I wasn’t in my bed like I should be, surrounded by the cream duvet comforter that Mom and I had gotten from Macy’s last month. The fabric under my fingertips was cool and kind of scratchy.

Evidence number two: It smelled different. Not in a
bad
way. Just not like the apple-cinnamon air freshener that Mom loved and sprayed all over the house, despite the fact that Dad and I hated cinnamon. I usually countered it by walking around the house with vanilla candles. As a result, our house smelled sweeter than the largest bakery in town. Ironic, because none of us could actually bake.

I sucked in another deep breath to be sure. Nope, there were no apples, cinnamon, or vanilla of any kind here. Instead, it smelled like cotton with a faint touch of pine and grass.

But the most damning evidence of all was the muscular, bare back of a half-naked—at least I hoped it was just half, since I couldn’t see beneath the navy blanket wrapped around his hips—guy lying beside me. Who definitely should not be in my
bed
.

“Oh god. Oh. My. God.” My voice came out in a hoarse squeak. I squeezed my eyes shut before opening them again. Once. Twice. Over and over until fuzzy stars appeared on the pale-blue ceiling—a ceiling that was also not mine—but he wouldn’t disappear.

And the stars didn’t help my throbbing head. Why hadn’t anyone warned me that drinking would make me feel like crap the next day?

With shaky hands, I peered beneath the covers, and—
whoosh
—a sigh of relief escaped. Thank god I was fully clothed. If you could call the lacy black tank and capris that Carly had stuffed me into the night before fully clothed. But besides that, everything else looked normal. Except for the strange room and the half-naked guy I was in bed with.

I was in a crapload of trouble. Why had I let Carly drag me to that party last night? (Note to self: Nothing good ever comes from listening to that girl.) But she’d caught me in a weak moment. Granted, I had a bunch of weak moments after I got my wait-list letter from Columbia.

But seriously, me, Taylor Simmons. Wait-listed! I still couldn’t believe it. Didn’t they know who I was? Did they even
look
at my application, for god’s sake? It was impeccable,
and
I turned it in extra early. I even had to add an extra page for my list of accomplishments. I should have been a shoo-in.

But the months passed, and no acceptance letter. And they didn’t respond to my e-mails and phone calls to check if the computers were down. Or if the acceptance committee was all sick and hospital-bound. Nothing. Until finally, a measly wait-list letter last month.

Anyway, that wasn’t the point. Not really. The point was that I’d been dragged to the party … and then I’d left. Obviously. But where was I now? And how did I get here? Where was Carly, and why hadn’t she stopped me or—

“Hmph.”
The guy flopped over onto his stomach, away from me.

Heart racing, I could barely move. My chest tightened, but I didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, until the soft snoring from his side of the bed resumed. And even then, I could only let out short half breaths.

That was close. Too close. I needed to get out of here.
Now.

I cautiously eased off the mattress, inch by inch, wincing as the slight movement made my head pound harder. My toes touched the soft carpet, and I pushed myself upright, freezing for a full minute every time the bed creaked.
Only a bit farther.

After what felt like hours—although it was probably only a few minutes—I slipped off the edge of the bed and took a step toward the door. Big mistake. The floor’s creak was like a shotgun blasting across the room. The guy stirred, and I dove toward the ground, landing on the maroon carpet with a soft thump. My head smacked against my forearm.
Ouch.

What the…?
A name was written on my left forearm in my curly handwriting. My name.
Taylor Simmons
. How hammered had I been to scribble my own name on my arm? Seriously, what the hell happened last night?

There was no time to think about it now. Still on my hands and knees, I stumbled around the dark room for my silver sandals. The only noise was the soft snoring from the lump on the bed.

Still … who
was
my partner in crime? Could it be someone I knew, or was it—
holy crap
—a random guy I met at the party? Was I a harlot like in those Regency romance novels I hid in the back of my nightstand?

Or was
courtesan
the right word? It
sounded
classier, at least.

“Oh god.” I shook my head and resisted the urge to smack my palm against my forehead. Now wasn’t the time to get technical.

A sliver of sunlight shone through the top of the window shades, casting a shadow over his face, which was still partially buried in the pillows. I peered over the edge of the mattress but couldn’t see more than his muscular, deeply tanned back. I
thought
his hair was dark, but I couldn’t be sure. Even though I knew I should get the hell out of here, a part of me—probably the part that was still drunk—hesitated. I had to know who he was. But each time I tried to get closer, the damn floor kept creaking.

Jeez, what kind of house was this?

Against my better judgment, I snooped around the room, careful to crawl on my elbows and stomach like a soldier on enemy territory. Tennis shoes, video games, textbooks with crisp pages that hadn’t been used very often, an admirable collection of old-school comic books …
Bingo!
I hit the jackpot when I tossed a dirty magazine out of the way and found a stack of pictures. I shoved my tangled, dark hair out of my face and moved a little closer to the light.

Cars and girls. Loads of them. Girls, I mean. And there was a
lot
of skin in most of them. My cheeks flushed hotly at a picture of a girl and the minuscule bikini that could barely restrain her large boobs, which she thrust toward the camera with a coy grin. I couldn’t even tell if she was a redhead or a brunette. Just teeth, lips, and boobs.
Flip.
A blond with boobs. Another blond with boobs. A picture of someone’s legs on the beach.

“Come on. Show your face,” I muttered with a quick upward glance to make sure my unknown partner was still sleeping. He was.

Finally, I found a picture with a guy in it. He was standing in profile, but his face was turned toward the camera, dipped down toward—what else?—more boobs. His nose was pretty straight, aside from the teeniest bump at the bridge. Slightly spiky dark blond hair. Laughing dark-gray eyes that glanced to the side. His jaw was sort of large, which could be from an underbite, but it suited him. Especially when he smiled. So very hot.

And familiar.

My head jerked to the smooth, lounging back. Then I focused on the tiny glimpse of black Chinese characters trailing down his left forearm. I’d seen that tattoo close-up once before. Everyone claimed it meant “Just live.” But for all I knew, it actually meant “Gum lover.”

A low groan escaped my lips. No, no, no. Not him.
Anybody
but Evan McKinley, Nathan Wilks High School’s very own legendary manwhore. Said to have screwed so many girls that he had to get a new surfboard, because his old one was full of nicks in memory of each new conquest.

Killing any remaining traces of hope that I was wrong, he stretched out his left arm, and I could see his name written on his skin.
Evan McKinley.
In
my
handwriting.

WHERE WERE THOSE DAMN SANDALS?

I crawled around so fast, I was pretty sure I’d have permanent carpet burn on my elbows. I didn’t care. If anyone caught me within a yard of Evan, the rumor mill would explode. It had been hard enough to squash the gossip that spread last year when I’d nearly drowned in the Harrison Parks community pool and he’d saved me. Since then, I’d steered clear of anything that had to do with him.

Which would really suck if anyone knew I’d spent the night
in his bed
.

Shoes, shoes … maybe I didn’t need them. Dad had bought them for me when I became editor of the school yearbook. He probably wouldn’t even notice that they were missing, but Mom definitely would. She’d been the one who persuaded him to get them for me despite their ridiculous price—you would have thought the crystals were real diamonds—instead of the modest black pumps I needed for my internship at his law firm next year. “You need something pretty! Something fun!” she kept saying over and over. Weird how I was more like Dad, even though I wasn’t his biological daughter. The only thing I’d gotten from Mom was her brown eyes.

And she would give me hell if I didn’t have my shoes. Besides, I didn’t know how far from home I was. And I already wasn’t looking forward to the walk of shame I had ahead of me. I wiggled even more beneath the bed, arms spread out in search.

A sleepy male voice laced with amusement suddenly drifted over my head. “They’re under my desk.”

“What?” I scrambled out and shot upright, smacking the back of my head against Evan’s jaw. He must have been leaning over the bed, watching me. A loud crack echoed through the room before we both sprang apart, each groaning loudly.
Gah
, his jaw was as hard as a hammer, and I was the screw he’d nailed. Not exactly the best metaphor, but he’d knocked whatever literary sense I had out of me.

When the pain finally lessened, I glanced up. Evan was turned to the side, slightly bent over, both hands massaging his cheeks and jaw as though checking if anything was broken. With a mind of their own, my eyes slid down his body. I’d seen him at the pool and gym before, but I’d never actually
looked
at him. At least, not this closely.