Calm down. Be one with the Force. Use every Jedi mind trick you know.
“Hey,” Shanna gasps, rushing up beside me. I slow down. Just a bit. “That got really intense, huh?” Her eyes widen. I sigh.
“Sorry. It’s been kind of a weird month.”
“‘Experience this.’ I fucking love it. What a line,” Meredith says, waltzing up beside me. She puts an arm around my shoulders. “Think of it this way, hon. This is a big city, big enough to lose even the smuggest of assholes. Feel better.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, hugging her in return. She’s got a point. One nice thing is the hotel is huge and the convention is busy. I never have to see that jackass again.
5
Julia
I can’t believe I slept with that jackass. What is wrong with me?
All right, don’t panic Julia.
Frazzled, I take the elevator down to ten and hustle back to my room. The plastic key card slips out of my hands once, twice, until finally I get the door open and stumble inside. I walk into the bedroom, grateful for the fact that at least the curtains are still drawn. The room exists in that cozy almost twilight, Shanna’s bed still rumpled from having been slept in. Mine, on the other hand, is pristine, the sheets perfect, the pillows plumped. Never made it back here last night.
Oh God. Think, Julia. Did you actually do the nasty? Did you fuck the Worst Guy Ever? And if you did, can you remember if he was good or not?
Wow, brain. Not the time.
I groan as I flip on the lights and rush into the bathroom. I need a shower. That’s it. A good hot shower will stop the pounding headache. I look at the mirror over the sink, grimacing at my smeared eye makeup. Then, just to make sure, I pull down my skirt, turn around, and bam. Tattooed TARDIS, right square over my ass. My Whovian heart has led me astray at last.
“Well, Ten, here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten us into,” I grumble.
Confession: I like to imagine that the Tenth Doctor is kind of like the physical embodiment of my wild and crazy side. I mean, he’s played by David Tennant. How could he not be reckless?
Okay, I need to focus on things other than my imaginary Time Lord and my hangover. I groan and close my eyes. This is all alcohol’s fault. God as my witness, I will never do shots again. For at least forty-eight hours, that is.
I turn on the shower full blast. I’m pretty sure this is going to mess with my tattoo—I try smoothing the square of plastic wrap back over it—but fuck it. There is no time. Before I get in the stall, I look back at my reflection. I need a pep talk.
“Okay, stay calm,” I say aloud, my voice a little jarring in the otherwise silent hotel room. I breathe deeply. Nothing terrible has happened. It’s not like I’m late for any—
Oh fuck. I rush into the bedroom to check the clock on the nightstand, and freak out a little. Shit. My panel! Sex, Lies, and Superspies starts in half an hour!
“Shitballs and fucksticks,” I mutter, and run out to the bed to grab my laptop. And that’s when I make a wonderful, nauseating discovery: my purse and laptop aren’t here. At all. Even when I get on my hands and knees and inspect under the beds, under the table, and in every cabinet drawer, they still elude me. I plant my face in a pillow and give a loud, muffled scream.
Okay, Julia. Don’t melt down. Don’t go on a rampage. Think. And maybe shower, because you smell like cigarettes and bad decisions.
I rush back to the bathroom, undress fully, yanking off my bra and panties, and jump into the shower. I lather up as fast as I can. I’m out, toweled, and dressed in ten minutes flat. My makeup is hastily applied in an additional three.
Okay. I stand back and admire myself in the mirror. Cute. I look cute. It looks a little bit like I made out with the Joker and took off some of his lipstick, but right now there’s nothing much else I can do.
“Nate Wexler. You are a monster,” I grunt. Then I grab my key and race out the door. Damn, damn. I’m supposed to be at my panel at least ten minutes beforehand. This is cutting it dangerously close.
I race down the carpeted halls, take the elevator, and soon find myself standing outside one of the galleria rooms. There are clusters of women chatting together as I stumble towards the raised stage. A woman with a clipboard and a tense expression rolls her eyes as I stagger up to her.
“Sorry I’m late. I had an, ah, emergency,” I say, adjusting my bra strap. I am a professional, dammit.
“Whatever. You’re on time,” the woman grunts, and turns her back on me.
Everyone’s a real sweetheart this morning.
I climb up the stairs to the stage, heart jackhammering in my chest, and sit down in the seat marked for me. My newest book, Forbidden Desire, is sitting right in front of me on a stand. Already, the women by the door have taken their seats, and the room is filling with cheerful smiles and excited faces.