UPDATE: To the guest who apparently doesn't like Max's drunken justification for her actions... she's drunk, okay? Don't tell me people are rational when they're drunk. Anyways, I changed that one sentence, so hopefully you're happy. I don't want to sound rude or anything, but if this story is too risque for you, then don't read it.


FANG

It's another few hours before I have stumbled out of the airport from the security room. Apparently, running after a commercial plane while wildly swinging a black backpack around is pretty much synonymous with terrorist in New York. I don't blame them -after all, a lot of bad crap has happened here over the years.

But who in their right mind would think I was a terrorist?

After proving that I was, in fact, Nicholas Aryan Walker, who moved from San Diego to Manhattan to pursue a better job opportunity, they still weren't convinced. So then I had to call Iggy to prove that I, indeed, had lived in California for twenty-seven years, I had to dig up my birth certificate, and I had to -here's the kicker -turn in my phone for more careful observation.

The only thing the cops are going to find in there are long text conversations where Iggy and I rate different cartoon characters based on how good we think they'll be in bed. Example -I gave Kim Possible a 10 because of her badass fighting moves, while Iggy gave Lizzy Maguire a 7 because her lips are too big.

So there's a nice start to my stay in Manhattan.

I walk outside to hail a cab, lugging my black suitcase and my backpack dejectedly. Today is not one of my better days. All I want to do is go back to my hotel room and crash for about twenty hours. As I successfully hail a cab -ha, I'm practically a New Yorker already -I flop down onto the cracked leather seats, ignoring the tinny voice issuing a seatbelt warning.

Big mistake.

The taxi driver starts off by shooting across three lanes of traffic, which doesn't even make sense. How can there be so much traffic at two in the morning? I'm hurled against the door of the taxi and my backpack hits me in the face. Just as I start to regain my bearings, the driver makes a hard left and it takes all my strength to keep myself from falling head-over-heels. Finally, as we stop at a stop light, I manage to put my seatbelt on and hear the click. What the fuck.

I'm spitting mad by the time I reach my hotel. The company I'm working for is paying for my stay until I can find suitable accomodation. But I'm not too excited about that -I know that in Manhattan, on my kind of salary, the only thing I'll be able to afford is a one-bedroom studio apartment. It doesn't even compare to my gorgeous, stand-alone house in San Diego.

I pay the taxi guy about twice the regular charge so he doesn't think I'm some stingy tourist and go up the stairs to the Ramada Inn. I walk up to the cute receptionist and clear my throat. "Hi, I'm Nicholas Walker, here to check in."

She tears her eyes away from the television in the corner of the lobby, which is playing some footage of an idiot chasing a plane in JFK... wait, shit. I'm on the news? Why am I on the news? I thought New York was the crime hub of the entire country! There should be mob bosses and scary gunmen on the news, not a poor guy who left his headphones on a plane! I clear my throat again and she comes back to earth. "Sorry, yes, Mr. Walker, you'll be in room 117." She pauses as my room key starts printing, and grins at the television. "Some tourists, huh?"

I nod. "Yep. They can get pretty crazy..." Please get me out of here.

The receptionist hands me my room key, her blonde hair threatening to fall out of its bun. "You know, you look really familiar. I feel like I've seen you before."

"Well, I was on one of those doctoral pamphlets when I was a kid. How to Avoid Constant Diarrhea," I say, trying to take the room key from her.

She shakes her head, smiling. "No... I almost feel like..." She turns to the television, which is still playing the footage of me running after the plane, and back at me. She looks at me incredulously, her bright red lips curved in a salacious smile. "No."

"Listen, I've had a really long day, and I just want to get up to my room and sleep..." I say plaintively.

The receptionist smiles. "So it is you up there?"

I turn red, and that's enough answer for her.

"Fine, Mr. Nicholas Walker. I'll strike you a deal. I won't tell my coworkers that the comedic man running after the plane was you, and in return, you have to give me your number."

"My number?" I say blankly.

She grins and her blonde hair falls out of its bun and over one shoulder. "Do we have a deal?"

"Yeah... yeah, okay," I say numbly. "That sounds like a plan."

She smirks at me. "I'm thinking you're very new to the city."

"Yeah."

"I'm thinking you'll need someone to show you around."

"Uh..."

The receptionist leans forward. "I'm Star, by the way. Star at everything I do." And she winks.

We talk some more, and Star agrees to take me on her version of the New York tour tomorrow morning. So fifteen minutes later, I finally enter my hotel room, grinning from ear to ear.

Yeah, okay, maybe New York isn't so bad after all.


MAX

It's been so long since I've had a girls' night out, and that's exactly what I'm doing right now. Just a night for me to ignore the stress of work, and the very imminent possibility that I'll be given the sack. So after I got dropped home from the airport, I called up Ella, Nudge, and Angel for a night on the town. And here we are, at one of those bars that seems to exist solely for men to hit on women and for people to have sex in bathrooms.

"Oh my God, I have to be at work in six hours!" Angel says, giggling like mad after her fourth drink. She's an elementary school teacher, and she's putting away shots like they're made of water. Nudge snorts, struggling to balance herself on the spindly bar stool.

"Call in sick or something," she says, swaying slightly. Her mocha skin seems to glow in the hazy light from the bar.

Angel sighs. "I can't... I already called in sick last week to go to that Prada sample sale with you. I'm just gonna go to work hungover... maybe have the kids color the whole day or something..."

I'm busy downing my third martini in an hour when Ella taps me on the shoulder. She doesn't usually drink or anything, because she's a weird yoga/health nut, but her eyes are sparkling with a kind of fervor that can only come from drinking a crap ton of liquor. "Max, I talked to two guys, and they're totally down if we want to go home with them!"

I look to where Ella's pointing, to a couple of cute guys in suits who grin and wink at me, and I give them a thumbs-up. "What did you say to them about me?"

Ella bounces on the balls of her five-inch high heels. "Just that you were really stressed and looking to blow off some steam."

I wince. "That makes me sound like a whore."

"Well, they're leaving pretty soon, so do you want to or not?"

I look over at Nudge and Angel, are now both busy getting down on the karaoke machine by doing a really bad rendition of Katy Perry's I Kissed a Girl. I look back at the cute booty call boys, who are both easily an eight out of ten.

I just want to say here that I'm not desperate. Well, just saying that makes me sound desperate, so forget I said that. I've dated, sure, but I've never had much luck in that scene. But, you know, I'm drunk, I might get fired, and I'm only twenty-five, for God's sake. I should live a little. It's a little-known fact that this is how Mark Zuckerberg invented Facebook. He was busy playing beer pong with his college buddies and, after his fifteenth shot, decided to develop an easy way to booty call hot girls. "Okay. I call the one with the blonde hair. He keeps winking at me." I wave back.

Ella groans. "Fine. But the brunette better have a good personality or else I'm never doing this with you again."

Blondie and I hail a cab and he tells the driver the address of his apartment. On the way there, Blondie keeps trying to feel me up, and I keep swatting his hand away. "What's your name?" he asks me, and I grin.

"Maxine Ride."

"Nice. I'm Jeff. Jeff Hannigan."

Jeff Hannigan... that sounds familiar...

...

And that's how I end up in bed the next morning facing a framed picture of my boss.

I stifle a scream and sit up boltright. Why is a picture of Mike Hannigan here?! Where am I, even?

It's then that I remember last night. I look over at the blond boy tangled in the sheets next to me, and then it all comes back.

Jeff Hannigan...

I'm in bed with none other than my boss's son.

But, you know, it could be worse. I could be hungover -shit, my head is throbbing like hell.

Well, at least he doesn't live with his dad, right? No one has to know. In fact, he's not even awake yet. I carefully tiptoe out of the bedroom and try to put my dress from last night on, all prepared for the walk of shame back to my own apartment.

Okay, okay, don't panic, Max. All you have to do is get the hell out of here. It's not that hard. It's not hard at all. I tie my hair up into a loose ponytail, grab my heels and my bag, and try to slink out of the room as best I can while having a throbbing headache, a parched throat, and the need to hurl. I'm almost to the door of Jeff's apartment when I hear the door opening. Shit.

I duck behind the sofa just as a person walks in. It's him. It's Mike Hannigan.

Oh, God, I am so fired.


They will meet. Eventually. I'll make it happen. It's going to be a long, drawn-out, painful process.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter -Birdwatched, The Silken Ninja, and a guest. I know this story doesn't have a lot of reviews but it doesn't matter because the ones I do get are so wonderful to read.

Until next chapter!