The zip on her skirt had stuck halfway down, so she’d slept in it. It had been a night of feverish dreams—lips and hands and dark, passion-fuelled eyes. Oh, Zippy. Why did you have to spoil it by asking for my number? She sighed and glanced over at the clock, gasped, then leapt off the bed. Ten past ten! The band meeting had started in the conference room ten minutes ago. She stuffed her bare feet into her Doc Martens and rushed into the en suite bathroom. Splashing water onto her face, she got a good look at herself in the massive mirror. Raccoon eyes. No problem. Hair sticking up in all directions. No problem. Boobs hanging out of her top. Problem. She rushed through the room, hurriedly grabbing her favorite Ramones t-shirt and her keycard, before slamming the door behind her and rushing to the lift. Elevator, Zippy would call it, she thought with a smirk, as she entered through the barely open doors and started stabbing at the button for the ground floor. She pulled on her t-shirt, tugging it down to cover the broken zip, and leaned back against the wall.
