News Blues by Marianne Mancusi Read Free Book Online Page B

twinkle in his eye.
    “Definitely. And there’s a club right down the street.” Suddenly I had a bundle of energy. “It’s way cheesy, but they do play
     eighties.”
    “Cool. Sounds like a plan.”
    We finished our drinks and left the bar. While trying to coordinate my feet for the walking thing one had to do when one bar-hopped,
     I realized I was drunker than I’d thought. Jamie propped me up a bit to make sure we traveled in a straight line. We laughed
     and giggled the whole way down the street.
    When we got to the club, I tripped. Damn platform shoes. The bouncer took my lack of coordination as alcohol related and told
     Jamie I was too drunk to enter.
    “But I want to hear eighties music!” I protested as Jamie led me away. I liked the feeling of his strong arms possessively
     wrapped around my waist. If he were my boyfriend I’d want him to always walk with me this way.
    “We can come back another time, ” he comforted. “Unless you know another club around here.”
    “I know! I have eighties music at home. It’s only a block a way. We could have a dance party in my living room.”
    “Hmm, I don’t know, ” Jamie said with a teasing look. “Do you have Depeche Mode?”
    “I do!” I cried triumphantly. “I have lots of Depeche Mode. Even some of the early bootleg singles.”
    “Then lead the way.”

    Argh, my head.
    My head really, really hurt.
    And I was dying of thirst.
    I pulled the blankets over my head to block the rays of strong San Diego sun from blasting my sensitive morning eyes. What
     time was it? Why was I naked?
    Uh-oh.
    A flashback of memory—a snapshot of my body on autopilot—hit me like a rock dropped from ten stories up.
    The last thing I remembered clearly was leaving Moondoggies. With Jamie. Getting refused at the next club. With Jamie. Going
     back to my apartment.
    With Jamie.
    The rest was blurry. But what I did remember was truly horrifying. Blasting ’80s music from my stereo. Mixing up margaritas
     (like I needed more alcohol!) in my blender. Jumping on my bed, singing and dancing like a retard to Simple Minds.
    Making out with Jamie like there was no tomorrow.
    I slowly rolled over to face the other side of the bed. To confirm my worst fear. Was there another body in my bed?
    There was.
    Not just any body, either. But a sexy, rumpled, naked, sound asleep, Jamie body in my bed.
    Again. Uh-oh.
    I groaned. How could I have been such an idiot? Gotten so drunk I didn’t even remember having sex with the guy? That was so
     bad. So alcoholically bad. On about a million and three levels:

    a) Having sex and not remembering it.
    b) Having sex and not remembering it with a guy I barely knew.
    c) Having sex and not remembering it with a guy I barely knew who happened to have a fiancée he was going to marry in three
     months.
    d) Having sex and not remembering it with a guy I barely knew who happened to have a fiancée he was going to marry in three
     months and that I had to work with day in and day out for the foreseeable future.

    Now what should I do? Did I snuggle up next to him and pretend I had planned the seduction? Get the hell out of bed and pretend
     I’d slept on the couch, hoping he didn’t remember, either? Make breakfast? Leave the country and open up shop as a WWJD bracelet
     maker in Tijuana?
    Hmm. Speaking of, what would Jesus do in a case like this? No, bad question. He wouldn’t have gotten himself in this mess to begin with.
    I noticed with some relief a ripped open condom package on my nightstand. One of the ones Jodi had stuffed in a drawer one
     time “just in case.” Thank god, even in my drunken blackout I’d still had the wherewithal to be safe.
    I tried to crawl out of bed, but at that moment the sleeping Jamie rolled over, tossing a heavy arm over my body and pulling
     me closer so I was spooned against him. I was stuck. Extremely comfortable, but stuck.
    I felt his hot breath warm my skin and tried to think back to the night before. Damn it,