“Maybe we should.” Iris’s hands roamed over the fabric, over Stevie’s breasts. She released a little groan. “No bra. Fuck, that’s hot.”
Stevie froze. Shit. She’d forgotten this shirt was tight enough that she didn’t need a bra. Her chest wasn’t anything impressive. Half the time, she went braless even in T-shirts, but tonight, she was cursing the decision.
Because as soon as her top was off, she’d be naked from the waist up.
In front of Iris.
Iris, whose last name Stevie didn’t even know.
Not that she should.
Not that Stevie hadn’t known a hookup usually involved some degree of nakedness.
Not that any of those facts were helping quell the panic rising in Stevie’s gut right now.
She could hear herself breathing, air huffing through her nostrils, and not in a sexy way. Her stomach roiled, her mouth watering in warning.
Breathe, she told herself. Just fucking breathe.
“Are you okay?” Iris asked. She’d stepped back again, and Stevie nodded, reaching for her once again to convince them both. Instead of coming into her embrace, however, Iris gripped Stevie’s forearms and peered into her face.
“You look a little . . .”
But before Iris could finish her sentence, Stevie’s stomach had finally had enough. It rebelled, full and utter mutiny. Stevie leaned over and threw up all over the scuffed oak floor. It wasn’t much—her extreme anxiety pukes never were—but it was enough to splash a little on Iris’s jeans, her bare feet.
For a second, neither of them moved. Stevie stood there, still breathing heavily, and waited for some monster of the underworld to burst through her floor and swallow her whole.
Unfortunately, no such creature appeared.
Iris still held on to Stevie’s arms.
She must be in shock.
“Okay, then,” Iris finally said, breaking the horrible, vomit-covered spell. “Well.”
“I’m so sorry,” Stevie managed to say. Tears had sprung into her eyes. In these moments when Stevie didn’t pay attention to the signs that her anxiety level was reaching a fever pitch and do a little triage—take her as-needed meds on top of her regular Lexapro, slow down, remove herself from the anxiety-inducing situation if possible—and she ended up hurling, she always followed that delightful experience with a hearty round of sobbing.
“It’s okay,” Iris said, but her voice sounded tight, uncomfortable. Unsurprising, considering she’d just been vomited all over by someone she was trying to seduce. How very sexy.
The thought made the tears overflow, running down Stevie’s cheeks and stealing her breath.
“Oh god,” Iris said, noticing the tears. “Okay, it’s all right.”
“It’s not. Shit, I’m so, so sorry,” Stevie managed to say between hiccups. “You can go. Please.”
Iris released Stevie’s arms and guided her backward, careful to avoid the puddle of sick on the floor. She sat Stevie down at the end of the bed, then headed toward the kitchen. Stevie heard some cabinets opening and closing, and then Iris returned with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of cleaner.
“No. Iris, oh my god. Don’t.”
But Iris kneeled down and wiped up the puke with a few swipes, then sprayed the floor with cleaner and wiped that up too. Stevie knew she needed to get up, kick Iris out, and clean up her own mess, but she felt glued to the bed, tears still on a runaway train down her face.
“Iris,” she said, but Iris kept ignoring her, wiping at her feet and jeans, and then taking everything back to the kitchen. She ran the tap for what seemed like an hour—undoubtedly scouring a stranger’s vomit from her hands—before she returned to the bedroom with a glass of water.
“Here,” she said, handing it to Stevie. Then she pulled the covers down on the bed, literally fluffing Stevie’s pillow. Stevie watched in half horror, half fascination. She drank her water dutifully, but the cool liquid did little to assuage her humiliation.
“Iris,” she tried again, but Iris still didn’t respond. Instead, she took Stevie’s half-empty water glass and set it on the nightstand, then pulled Stevie up by her arms and guided her under the covers.
She tucked Stevie in.
After that, she went into the bathroom and found Stevie’s tiny trash can, setting it next to the bed. Stevie just watched her, her chest so tight she could hardly breathe.
“Okay,” Iris said, hands on her hips. She was still shirtless, beautiful. “You need me to call anyone for you?”
Stevie could only shake her head.
Iris nodded, then looked around for her sweater. She found it by the couch, slipped it on, and hoisted her bag over her shoulder. “Well. Good night. I hope you feel better.”
Stevie offered a weak wave. She wanted to explain—because what if, after all of this, Iris was worried about catching some horrible bug from Stevie—but she couldn’t seem to get any words to form. Her head was fuzzy, her tongue a useless lump in her mouth.
It didn’t matter anyway. Iris barely waited for a response, turning quickly and finding her shoes by the front door. She didn’t even slow down to put them on. She simply slipped out the door, clicking it softly shut behind her.
Stevie stared at the ceiling, hoping, as she laid in bed, that she’d realize this whole shitshow of a night was a dream. The music she’d put on to calm her down still played through her phone, so she grabbed it off her nightstand and silenced the sultry tones. She was just about to toss her device on the floor when it buzzed with a text.
It was from Ren, sent to their group chat that included Adri and Vanessa. A group chat that had been pretty quiet lately.
Stevie tapped on the message. It took her a few seconds to realize that she was looking at a photo of herself and Iris, dancing at Lush in a way that could’ve been a deleted scene from a queer version of Dirty Dancing.
Ren: Stevie and Ren, on the fucking town. Look at our girl go!
“Oh my god,” Stevie said.
Ren sent a few other pics—one of themself with the curvy brunette, followed by a line of empty shot glasses on the bar.
But Stevie knew what Ren was doing.
They wanted Adri and Vanessa to see Stevie with someone else. That was the whole goal of tonight anyway—someone different, someone new. The other photos were simply a cover, so it all seemed less pointed and more casual.
And it worked.
Because a split second later, Adri texted back. And she didn’t say anything about Ren’s zaftig or the copious amount of alcohol.
Adri: Wow, Stevie, she’s gorgeous
Vanessa: Way to go, Stevie
Adri: What’s her name?
“Shit, shit, shit,” Stevie said, dropping her face into her hands. She couldn’t answer. She could barely even think about Iris’s name right now.
Her phone buzzed again, and this time, Ren had texted only her.
Ren: You fucking badass you
Ren: Also you’d better be engaging in some truly scandalous sex acts right now
Stevie turned off her phone, pulled the covers over her head, and hoped to god or whoever that the end of the world was nigh.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“SO?” SIMON SAID as he and Iris settled at a table on the Everwood Inn’s patio. The trees surrounding the property blazed green in the summer sun. “How was it?”
Iris huffed a laugh and took a long sip from the ice water already set out at their table, chewing on the end of her biodegradable rainbow straw the inn was using for Pride month. “I’m going to need to be very drunk to talk about that.”
Simon winced. “Bad? She looked so nice.”
“Oh, she was,” Iris said. “Nice and sweet and grateful, especially when I was cleaning up her puke.”
Simon’s eyes went wide. “What.”
“You heard me.” Iris shuddered at the memory.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he said, waving his hands and leaning forward in his wrought iron chair. “She threw up?”
Iris nodded. “Indeed. One look at me in my bra and up it came.”