AN: So if any of you out there are familiar with my fanfiction work, you might be going Life as We Know It? That sounds awfully familiar. Well, I must admit, up front, that this is in fact, a re-telling of sorts. I started out thinking that the original story could be easily adapted to make a good original story, with a few minor tweaks. Well, a few minor tweaks seem to have turned into a lot of major ones and now there's hardly any connection at all. The title is still the same, of course, and the overall "having a one night stand with a good friend" set up remains the same but other than that, there's not much that remains. For those of you out there who are new to my work (as well as those of you who aren't), I hope you enjoy my story. Reviews and contructive critisism are always welcome.
And just an aside--this is just the prologue, don't expect all of my chapters to be this short. On average, my chapters tend to run approximately 3000 words, give or take.
I groaned as my mind registered the light that somehow permeated my shut eyelids. Drinking was bad and I promised myself at that moment that I would never do it again. My pounding headache craved a reprieve from the noxious stimulus, so I went to flip over but found myself strangely immobilized. My consciousness increased by the second and I quickly realized that the cause of my entrapment was an arm. The arm was, of course, attached to what seemed to be a very warm, very muscular body which happened to be molded quite intimately with mine.
Crap! Did I just have a one night stand? Me? Queen of the good girls? I didn't do one night stands; I wasn't the sleeping around type. In my twenty four years on this planet I had had exactly two boyfriends—unless you counted Joey Rayne from sleep away camp when I was twelve. We dated for a week, slow danced once, and then I had my friend break up with him for me because he wouldn't kiss me. But that was it. Two legitimate boyfriends, and a prudish twelve year old boy. I hadn't even had sex at all until I was twenty and well into my relationship with real boyfriend number two.
One. I'd had sex with one man—well, technically two now—in my entire life and here I was, naked in a bed with only god knew who.
I tried to wiggle out of the grasp that held me. It soon became apparent to me that whoever was behind me must have been having a very special dream and my wiggling probably wasn't helping matters. I stopped moving and tried to ignore the intense flood of embarrassment that was suddenly turning me pink from the tips of my ears straight down to my belly button.
I had to figure out how to get out of this situation. I was afraid to move for fear of waking my bedmate but staying there clearly wasn't an option either. I finally got brave and gently grabbed his wrist, lifting his arm just high enough for me to slip out from underneath it. I slowly stood up, pausing momentarily, listening for sounds of movement from whomever was in bed behind me. Hearing none, I let out a silent sigh of relief and hurriedly tried to gather up my clothing.
I had found my denim skirt, bra, and halter top, but as I continued to search to floor for my panties, I was suddenly interrupted by the sound of incoherent mumbling. I froze, then, making sure not to move any other part of my body, I slowly turned my head towards the bed in wide eyed fear. The man was still asleep but this did nothing to calm me down. On the contrary, a whole knew surge of panic flooded me. I stumbled backwards, tripping over a shoe and landing flat on my ass. I winced, partly in pain, partly in fear, but mostly in utter humiliation. There was still no movement from the bed and I felt myself start to breath again.
You see, the man in the bed wasn't just some stranger, or even a casual acquaintance. No, the person in the bed was Isaiah Blackman.
Who's Isaiah, you ask? Funny story—and by funny, I mean that the fates must have been having a hell of a laugh at my expense that morning. You see, Isaiah was my older brother's best friend, and a sort of pseudo big brother to me in his own right. I know, how cliché. Oh god! Not only was I a semi-incestuous slut, I was a cliché too. Could this get any worse? I know, I know…stupid question.
I finally came out of my temporary daze and stood up, hastily throwing on the clothes I had already gathered. My eyes scanned the room one last time, searching for my underwear and just as I was about to give up, I spotted it on the corner of the bed—literally wrapped around his ankle. I wanted to cry. What was I going to do? I knew I had to talk to Isaiah eventually, so there were really two options: I could try to wrestle my underwear off of his foot, most likely waking him up in the process, or I could leave it alone, go outside to make some coffee, and wait for him to wake up on his own.
I stifled a groan, realizing there was no way I'd make it through the obscenely awkward conversation that awaited me without a serious dose of caffeine in my system. I took one last longing look at my panties, aware that the mortification I would experience when I finally had to deal with him would be that much worse knowing that he had woken up tangled in them, and left the bedroom. It was going to be a very long morning.