I met Sven Underdahl much like any girl meets the love of her life. I woke up next to him, covered in my own puke and very sticky between the legs.
On top of that, I was very, very naked and in someone else's bed. The bedroom was bright pink and somehow I doubted it belonged to the sleepy, naked man in bed beside me who seemed to have the complexion of the nearly dead and bags that sort of looked like eyeliner.
"Fuck," I groaned, kicking my feet from underneath the Pepto-Bismol pink blankets and searching the floor for my clothes.
My head felt roughly as though it was wholly composed of bad decisions and snot, and when I found my blank thong hung on the outside doorknob of the bedroom door, my brain registered that as a victory and sent the impulse to smile to my lips.
It was supposed to be a summer going-away party for a couple friends who were going to college in the fall. Though I'd graduated a year ago, I didn't have ambitions farther than working at the Highway Stop until I found a rich man who would take care of me for the rest of my life.
In my effort to find this man—maybe at this party, because, hell, it was in the twins' fucking mansion and they had to have rich friends—I had become nauseatingly drunk. Apparently it was a drunk to a degree that I had slept with the missing member from The Cure.
"You could've woken me up," said the man behind me whom I had known only as naked-goth-eyeliner-boy. He could quite possibly be naked-goth-eyeliner-date-rapist-boy, I wasn't sure. I hadn't made my mind up on it yet.
"Where's my bra?" I barked.
"It's very nice to see you again, you know. You have a certain post-coital glow about you. I find it very charming." He was handsome, I had a hard time trying to deny that. He stood in front of me, wholly unashamed of his nakedness where I was fighting to keep a baggy green t-shirt covering my fragile bits in the fabulous black door hanger covered, while hunching forward to deny him a glimpse of the shape of my breasts through the fabric.
He was tall and lean, and a black tattoo of the letters S.U. on his ribs. His hair was dyed the same blue-black I preferred to use as a palette cleanser in high school. I could tell it was dye because a quarter inch of the brightest white roots I'd ever seen on a person sprouted from his scalp. And he had a nose ring. Sven Underdahl had a nose ring.
"Where's my bra?" I repeated.
"I don't know," he answered, smirking like it was a good joke, mimicking my stressed words. His smirk was lovely and he had a strange, washed-out accent I couldn't place. "As a lady, isn't that your job to know where your unmentionables are?"
My face flushed. "Put some pants on," I said, my weak return.
He rolled his eyes up, as though he was thinking about it, arms crossed over his chest. "Hm, no. I don't think I will."
Like a shot, he had wrapped himself around me, his head inclined toward me and his hand wrapped around mine. With a pen I hadn't seen him pick up, he wrote a phone number and a name on my palm.
Sven. What a stupid name.
He looked at me with depressingly gray eyes and that smile and, just for a second, I wanted him to kiss me. My breathing became harder and I felt almost like my insides were mid-earth quake.
Just as suddenly as he had latched onto me, he let go, rummaging over the floor of the pink bedroom floor for his things. I was left standing stupidly next to the bed with nipples hard enough to cut glass and my lips tingling like bee stings, aching from a kiss that had not hurt them.
He pulled on snug black jeans over a white pair of boxers he gathered out of the bed and shouldered on a coat of oily black bird feathers. Looking at his body, drenched in light from the windows, he looked otherworldly. I should've fucking known right there, but the flat, taut stomach and design of black roses ensnaring his ribs kept my mind elsewhere.
"I'll talk to you later," he said, again with the though last night didn't happen, he pat me on the shoulder like I was a bro and walked out the door, barefoot and carrying a pair of blak and white brogues along with a white t-shirt.
Shortly after Sven left, I had dressed myself to the best of my ability, stealing a bra from the dresser that did not belong to me and putting it on under the green t-shirt, following by pulling my light blue skinnies up my legs, followed by a pair of my metallic pink Doc Martens.
Yvonne, my bottom bitch, stuck her head in the door after wrapping on it with her knuckles. Yvonne was classic Greek, beautiful olive skin and almond shaped eyes. She'd been borne on a gust of wind, along with her family, from Massachusetts and had landed in Hannaford, Virginia along with the rest of us assholes and grew curvy and very, very acidic.
While I may have had a pH of four, Yvonne was pH two bordering on one, with no care for tact or deftness of rhetoric. "Where'd the fag go?" she asked, walking her five foot ten frame into the bedroom and examining the crime scene. "Really did a number on Erica's bed," she observed. "I wonder how many babies Gothie lost in here."
I pulled my now nasty and rat-nested, two-toned hair into a ponytail behind my head and flipped her the bird. "You're not hung over at all, are you, bitch?"
She grinned wide, her nose ring, eyebrow ring, and lip stud all a gleaming 'screw you.' "Not a bit, honey-bunny. You, however, look like shit."
"Thanks. Now you get to buy me breakfast." I grabbed her wrist and hauled her off the bed. "We have much to talk about."
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Thank you for the lovely reviews, Fantasy's Dreamer and LoStInMyTeArS. I'm sorry I did not update sooner. And WoW is World of Warcraft. (: