Rather than with a start, Missy awoke with a sluggish mental trudge toward panic. The blue Star Wars print sheets were not hers. The orange, motel-style drapes would have been burned in her stylish apartment. This was neither her room nor her bed. Hands slow with hangover and dread searched down to thankfully discover that underwear was still present.
She stood. The room spun. Once that stopped she took one step, bare foot on shag carpet. The room spun again. This repeated until she was inching down a poorly lit hallway to a very messy kitchen. In the middle of said kitchen were two Karls, then three, and finally just one Karl, moping over a bowl of something brightly colored.
Her mind tried to race, stumbled, and fell flat over faulty logic and desperate hope. Karl wasn’t a bad guy, but she couldn’t afford to have slept with her English tutor.
As if reading her mind, he rattled off around a mouthful, “No, we didn’t do it. Yes, my place is a mess. No, you weren’t drunk. You got roofied.”