It was almost eight o’clock on the night after my little sexcapade with Beck, and I was sitting around waiting for his call like a hopeless, desperate, groupie. This was so not me. Pathetic. When my phone did finally ring, I startled and swooped to grab it, only to feel my heart sink when Fallons’ number flashed across the screen. I contemplated letting it go to voicemail, but then decided after my dead end discussion with Tessa, I needed some Fallon-inspired wisdom. “Yo,” I picked up, answering after the third ring. “Spill. Now. No beating around your non-existent bush.” “Ewww, and how the hell do you know it’s non-existent?” “We use the same wax girl at the spa, doll. Now, spill.” I laughed, but I felt my smile quickly fade when I remembered feeling like a two-bit whore for sleeping with Beck and that I was apparently unworthy of the call he’d promised.
