Looking to Score(48)

And then my cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Miss Matthews, I know it’s a Sunday, but this call couldn’t wait.” I grabbed my chest. My mentor sounded angry, and I wasn’t ready to hear why. “There are photos of you and Oakley at a party.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Holy hell. Last night hit me like a sledgehammer. We were practically grinding on one another. I didn’t even have to see the photos to know that it probably looked really bad. “The lack of professionalism is really concerning, Miss Matthews. I can’t in good conscience give any sort of recommendations if you consistently cross boundaries with your clients.”

Shame crept up my neck. It was almost worse than disappointing my parents. Dr. Haynes was a huge deal in our industry. “You’re supposed to be learning right now. This could be a massive stepping stone for your future, and you’re blowing it. Either you hold yourself to a higher standard or give up. We can’t keep working this way. It is starting to reflect badly on me, and unlike you, I actually care what people think about me.”

“I’m so sorry,” I sputtered.

“Me too. We’ll have a formal meeting tomorrow. I suggest you manage the social media portion before then.”

He hung up, cutting me off, though I wasn’t sure what I could possibly say. My thumbs moved lightning fast to check the damage, and the moment I saw the photos and accompanying speculation, it felt just like the streaking incident all over again.

The photo was hot. We were lost in one another, his hands were cupping my ass, and my lips were pressed against his neck. Every muscle in his arms was flexed. His eyes were locked on me. I knew better. It felt so fucking good at the time, but I knew better, and I let it happen anyway.

I started frantically swiping through the photos, not that it could really get worse than that. But I had to know what was out there so I could get in front of it. Oakley was tagged in picture after picture with me in various compromising positions. I landed on one picture, and it took me about three seconds to process the fact that the girl draped all over Oakley wasn’t me. What the actual fuck? When did he even have time to take this?

I didn’t even care.

I felt like I was going to puke. My entire world was falling apart, again. And it was all my fault. Again. I was going to get fired tomorrow from the best opportunity I ever had. I wasn’t going to graduate early, possibly not even at all. There’s no way I would get another PR internship at this school. Probably not at any other school either. My boyfriend? I didn’t know, was he even my boyfriend? Whatever he was, there was photographic evidence of another girl with her tits pressed tightly into his chest while she kissed his cheek. After that picture, he sure as shit wasn’t my anything. I quickly screenshotted the post in case it disappeared. I’ve watched enough episodes of Cheaters to know to save the evidence.

I had to sit down. I took a few steps, looking for anywhere to sit. I couldn’t find anything, so I sat right in the middle of the sidewalk and brought my hands to my temples, using my thumbs to rub out the tension. Coeds went around me like I wasn’t even there. I was trying so hard not to cry or vomit right there on the sidewalk. Is this what a panic attack felt like?

I tried to breathe in and out. I was gasping for air, but it was like my lungs couldn’t fully expand. I was just panting without relief. Oh gosh. This was why I couldn’t get distracted. This was why I couldn’t relax for even a second. I was toxic. I was fucked up.

“Amanda?” A soft voice broke through my panic. Slender arms wrapped around me, and I was yanked up off the ground. My roommate stared at me. Her red hair was a wild mess of curls, and her eyes were full of concern. She decided what to do in a split second. “Let’s get you inside, okay? Let’s go home.”

I wordlessly let her guide me up to our apartment. She didn’t ask me questions; she was just there. It wasn’t until I was sitting at our kitchen island with a cup of tea in my palm that she spoke up. “Panic attacks are such a bitch. Do you feel the warmth of the heat from the cup on your palm?” she asked. I drew what little energy I had to my sense of touch.

“Y-yes,” I croaked.

“Do you see my crazy ass outfit?” she then asked, her voice growing more and more animated with every syllable. On the street, she treated me like a wild animal, approaching cautiously. That caution was fading now. My eyes took in her purple jumpsuit, and I smiled.

“What are you wearing?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

“We aren’t talking about me. Can you hear the cars outside?” she asked.

I listened to the traffic on the street outside our building, various honks and purring engines could be faintly heard. “Yes,” I replied, this time my voice stronger.

“Great. What happened down there?”

I let everything spill. I told Shelby everything. About why I was in Texas. About my fears about food.

About Oakley.

“So what if you fucked him? You’re an intern. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is if I want a good letter of recommendation.”

“You and I both know that your father is going to hire you. You honestly don’t even need to finish your degree. He’s got that privileged nepotism process,” she assured me, snorting.

“But I want to earn it,” I stammered.

“Do you? Because it seems like you really just want to prove you’re perfect. I don’t think it was ever about this internship.”