Sexually frustrated Pop Tart

JENNIE

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I sit bolt upright and stare at my surroundings. What the hell am I doing in my living room?

I glance down at the blanket covering me. I have no idea how I got here. I know my head hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, though. I stagger toward the kitchen and grab a glass and a couple of Advil. My kitchen is tidier than I left it, a lot tidier, and I was pretty wasted last night, but I don't remember cleaning up. I don't remember much past knowing I needed cupcakes, and I'm pretty sure at some point I left the house in search of them. Aside from the clean kitchen, everything looks just right. My keys are on the hook by the door, my purse is on the table in the breakfast nook, and my phone sits charging on the dock, but something feels majorly off.

After swallowing down the pills, I slowly retrace my steps. The living room is much neater than I remember, too. Kuma is sleeping on the back of the sofa, Kai is as usual burying his head in an empty Doritos package underneath the couch. Nothing looks out of place—and then I see them. A pair of leather boots resting on my hardwood floor. I frown at the shoes, demanding answers that I know they can't give. I poke them with my toe as if they could bite. I lift them and inspect them closely. Celine. Either I have a very well-dressed stalker somewhere in my house, or I stole someone shoes last night. Just how drunk was I?

Then it starts—the almighty roar from my bedroom. A woman is sleeping in my bed. A strange woman. One who snores loud enough to shake the walls of my apartment.

I grab the closest thing I can find to weaponry. A fluffy pillow and a fire poker. I hold the first out in front of my body like a shield, but I keep the poker down low as I slowly push the door open.

There she is—the culprit. She's a giant. Lying facedown in my bed. Between my sheets, no less, with my pillow covering her head.

The snoring is even louder now. It's ridiculous. This woman could tear down walls, shake the foundations of my apartment building with the obnoxious animalistic sounds she's making. She sounds like a dying rhino, or the T-rex from Jurassic Park.

I sneak closer to the bed, my heart pounding as I throw the pillow at her. The girl shifts in her sleep, and her breathing slows, but a beat later the snoring starts again and I have to resist the urge to scream. Instead, I raise my poker and jab the sheet covered body. It's not hard, just a quick jab or two, but she still doesn't stir.

"Hey, asshole!" I shout, and whack her hard in the butt with my poker.

The giant freak jumps up and seizes my hand. Her grip forces me to drop my weapon. She yanks me toward her—on top of her—and this is how I find myself eye to eye with the beast. She breathes her heavy, stinking breath on my face, and I wince and wrinkle my nose.

Lisa's eyes crinkle in the corners as she laughs. "Morning, Pop Tart."

"Get the hell out of my bed. And brush your goddamn teeth. What are you doing in my house, Manoban?"

"Ah, still feisty, huh? Is this like an all-day thing with you, or do you eventually turn from an angry sea witch into a person? Would coffee help?"

"Fuck you, Lisa."

"Darling, you wish."

"You're disgusting. I wouldn't touch you if—"

"Yeah, yeah, if I were the last person on Earth. I've heard it all before, sweet cheeks, and I don't buy it for a second." She flips us so suddenly my head spins. I'm beneath her, my wrists pinioned to the bed above my head by just one of her hands. The other glides up my side. My sheets have twisted up around us, but from this angle it looks as if Lisa Manoban is very much naked in my bed.

"Goddamn it," I complain once I find my voice. "I'm going to need to burn these sheets after you leave."

Her eyebrow quirks, and the grin she gives me is all-out salacious. She shifts her weight between my legs, then she drops her hips and grinds her erection against me. Did I ever tell you that she has junk between her legs?

I'm stunned, speechless. I have no words. They've all left me because my brain has turned to mush and my vagina is the only one thinking, and I'm really not okay leaving her in charge. "Why burn them when we're not done messing them up?"

"Get off, creep."

"I thought you'd never ask," she whispers, as if getting her off is something I'm actually considering. Ick. "Besides, I'm pretty sure this is the closest you've been to a dick in months."

Goddamn her, she's right. I'm too busy for sex with strange, and I'm smart enough to avoid sex with someone like Lisa. I scrunch up my nose in distaste, repulsed by the idea.

"Aww, you're so cute when you're all sexually frustrated, Pop Tart."

"What is wrong with you, and why the hell are you in my house?"

"You don't remember last night?"

For a split second, I'm struck dumb with the fear that she might have . . . that we . . . no. That's preposterous. I would never—no matter how drunk—ever have sex with Lisa Manoban. I am far smarter than that. I went to Columbia. Smart girls don't make stupid decisions, not even when assholes like Lisa . . . oh my god, that feels so good. Lisa rocks her hips, and my mouth drops open. My whole body tingles, my brain turns to mush, and then she chuckles and ruins the moment completely. "You know I think I finally figured out what your problem is after all of these years. You just need a good, hard, fuck."

With a grin, Lisa slides off me, pulls the sheet from the bed, and wraps it around her waist. I whimper as my vagina mourns the loss of her heat, and then I slap a hand over my mouth and lie staring up at the ceiling to avoid seeing Lisa in all her semi-naked glory. And despite how I feel about the woman herself, she is one glorious specimen to look at. She's Lili-Reinhart-in-Riverdale kind of glorious, only without all that ridiculous hair. Yes, to look at Lisa Manoban is to look at a god, but any god-like impression is ruined the second she opens her mouth.

"You know, Pop Tart, I could take care of that for you. With the way you're panting, it shouldn't take more than a few seconds to get you off. Then you can buy me breakfast. You owe me for putting up with your angry, drunk self last night."

Case in point.

I bolt upright. The woman has lost her damn mind. "You will not be taking care of anything. You are not permitted to come anywhere near my princess parts."

She laughs. "Did you just refer to your pussy as your princess parts?"

"Shut up. I'm flustered, and I don't do well with conflict."

"Could have fooled me."

"You still haven't told me what the hell you're doing sleeping in my bed."

"You really don't remember anything?"

I cross my arms over my body, as if they could protect me from what I fear might be the truth. "If I did, would I be asking?"

"Well, shit. This is awkward. I've never had a woman forget a hard night's fucking before. Maybe I'm losing my edge?"

My jaw drops open and I have to work to pick it up. "We did not have sex. There's no possible way. I would never let you touch me."

"You're right. We didn't have sex." She grabs her pants from the end of the bed and tugs them on, then her belt, shirt, and socks. "I just saved you from imminent death, walked you home, carried you inside, deposited you safely on the couch, cleaned your apartment, and checked on you every two hours to make sure you didn't slip into a coma."

My shoulders sag. Crap. Now I feel bad for insulting her. "Oh, well. Thank you. I appreciate it, but I'm still alive, haven't slipped into a coma yet, so . . . you can leave now."

Lisa laughs, but it's low, and there's no humor to the sound. "What exactly did I do to make you hate me so much?"

"Hmm . . . let me count the ways." I smile. "This may take a while. I'll just email you an itemized account, would that be okay?"

She shakes her head and makes her way to the living room. I follow, grabbing her jacket from off the back of the couch and holding it out to her. Her fingers brush mine as she reaches for it. Instinctively, I pull away. "Ah, Pop Tart, it's always a pleasure seeing you."

"What a terrible shame that the feeling isn't mutual." I walk her to the door and open it wide, gesturing with a sweep of my arm that she should leave.

Lisa stares at me for a beat and says, "You know, you're really a bitch in the morning."

"It's an all-day thing whenever you're around."

She crosses the threshold and turns to face me. "You're welcome, by the way."

"What?"

"For not leaving your ass on the street. For pulling you out of the path of that cab. For spending the night."

"Oh please, you slept in my bed."

"Well, it's not my fault someone passed out on the couch."

"Thank goodness I did because I'm still going to need to burn my sheets after you were rolling around in them. I may even need a new mattress," I say. "The way I see it, you owe me."

"Oh, Pop Tart. No wonder you're still single." Lisa walks away. Even her walk is irritating, as if she knows she's god's gift. Asshole.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I call to her back.

She just waves. "See you at the wedding."

Touché. Jealousy, anger, and dread roil in my stomach. In just a few short weeks I'll be walking down the aisle toward my ex-fiancé, only my ex-best friend will be the one to say I do. Not only that, but I'll also have to help plan their wedding, under my co-worker Nayeon, who is just as desperate as me to make partner. My life is a nightmare. A literal nightmare.

Frustrated and worked up from Lisa's teasing, I slam the door and turn to face my dogs. Kai and Kuma looked at me as if I've lost my mind. I head for the couch, but then I notice my bookshelf—the one filled with all of my Supernatural memorabilia—has been tampered with. My Pop! Vinyl figures all look like they're taking part in an orgy, and the worst part is she put Sam and Cas together. Sam and Cas. What is wrong with that woman? Thankfully, she had the sense to leave my '67 Chevy Impala Baby replica alone.

It occurs to me that I have no idea what Lisa has touched, and the thought of her cooties all over my apartment does not impress me at all. I need to clean from top to bottom, but first, I need to shower and rid myself of any germs I picked up on the street last night.

I run the water and slip beneath the spray of the rainfall head, scrubbing my skin until I practically sparkle. I have a few scrapes and bruises on my arms and legs, and my face has a minor cut that Lisa must have covered with a butterfly bandage while I slept. I'm not sure how I feel about Manoban the Ass touching me while I was out cold.

Once dried, I wrap myself in a towel, pad slowly out to the dresser, and open my underwear drawer. A frustrated scream escapes me. My only vibrator has been savagely ripped apart by a . . . a savage. Wires and tiny metal parts of the motor spill out of its pearly white silicone.

"Son of a bitch!" I'm sure my cussing can be heard from several blocks away.

I stalk into the kitchen, yank my phone from off the dock, and shoot a text to the most infuriating woman in Manhattan.

Me: I owe you? How about you owe me, after destroying my vibrator.

Lisa: LOL. You know, if you had a man, you wouldn't need a vibrator.

Me: Not true. I always had one with Chan.

Lisa: I said a man, not a boy.

Me: Isn't he your best friend?

Lisa: Yeah, that's exactly why I get to call him a fucking kid. Jesus, how did you put up with him that long? Come to think of it, how did he put up with you?

Me: Fuck you, asshole.

Lisa: No thanks, I don't go in for missionary. Chan says that's your thing.

I gasp and glare down at my phone. Oh my god, Chan did not tell her that. I mean, Chaeng and I used to talk about our sex lives all the time, but that's what girls do. And it's not like I'm a missionary freak or anything. I tried to spice up our love-making, switch up positions, introduce toys and fuzzy handcuffs, but Chan liked things a particular way. Plain. Vanilla. Not necessarily boring, but . . . yeah, it was totally boring. Chan was consistent in the bedroom, and I was busy. We were a busy couple, and sex was as efficient and enjoyable as it could be.

Me: Chan also left me because we wanted different things, and yet it seems two months later he's schtüping my best friend and proposing marriage. Maybe Chan can't be trusted?

Lisa: Did you really just use the word schtüping?

Me: Stop changing the subject. You owe me a new vibrator. And it's not going to be cheap.

Lisa: Send me your wish list.

Me: I don't have a wish list.

Lisa: Come on, you make lists for everything. Tell me you don't have one for your ultimate vibrators.

Me: Nope, sorry. Unlike some, I'm not governed by my genitals.

Lisa: Says the woman demanding that I replace her vibrator.

Me: I hate you.

Lisa: Feeling is mutual, Pop Tart. Don't worry, I'll buy you something good. Hello Kitty, perhaps? No. I know, something with a Supernatural theme.

I throw my phone on the counter with a grunt and stomp back to the bedroom to get dressed. God, I hate her.

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