Persephone

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CHAPTER 550

I am twenty-five years old. I have no idea where I am. My throat feels like sandpaper. I squint in the midday sunlight streaming through the window. I groan and shift and my thighs are sticky. Ugh.

I’m still clothed, as are the random people strewn about the room. I push up off of the couch, and sniffle. My nose feels raw. I can’t remember what I’d been blowing the night before, but it obviously hadn’t been strong enough to keep me awake.

There’s a metallic clanking noise. I grunt as I get to my feet, pulling down the little maroon skirt that had ridden up over my ass while I slept. I wander towards what I assume is the kitchen. There’s a short perky brunette making coffee, and I lick my lips as I watch her calves tighten as she shifts her weight.

She turns and notices me, her eyes narrowing. “You’re still here?”

“I’m as surprised as you, babe,” I reply. I put my hands up in surrender. “In my defense, there are like twenty people laying around your living room, it’s not just me.”

“Yeah, and those twenty people didn’t try to fuck my boyfriend,” she snaps.

Oh, shit. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Oops,” I reply with a little laugh. “I honestly don’t remember that. Sorry about that.”

She growls. “You’re sorry?” She takes another step towards me. “Fuck you!”

“Hey, you said try, which means I didn’t succeed,” I say. Goddammit, my head is starting to pound. “No harm no foul.”

She lunges for me, and I’m too slow. She catches me in the stomach. My spine explodes in pain as I smash into the counter. I shove her off of me and she bonks off of the fridge. There are clangs inside—something breaks.

“Get the fuck out!” the girl shrieks, and hurls herself towards me again.

I catch her arm this time and fling her to the side. Her head smacks off of the countertop with a sharp crack, and she crumples to the floor.

Shit, that’s my cue if I didn’t already have one. I turn heel and scan the living room maniacally, looking for my purse. I pry it out from under a denim-clad leg and make a run for the door. I can hear the bitch on the phone, and I’m pretty sure she’s calling the cops.

Sorry, Jade.

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