The Best Man (Blue Heron #1)(18)

Futtocks. She’d left her purse (and phone) at the table.

Well. She had to pee, anyway. Terror did that to her. Going into the stall, she unwound her sweater—the Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment (try saying that five times fast) required that she practically strip na**d to use the bathroom—and wrestled up her undergarment. The martinis, while relaxing and excellent, didn’t help her in the grace and coordination department, let alone the slutty, high-heeled boots she’d donned for Colleen.

Men never had to deal with this, Faith thought. Men didn’t hide in bathrooms and wrestle microfiber and pantyhose. Totally not fair. Men had it easy. Did men get bikini waxed and wear uncomfortable underwear? No, they did not. Faith would bet her life that a man had invented thongs. Men sucked.

As she yanked the Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment back into position, she reached for her sweater—so complicated! She got one arm in, couldn’t find the other one, groped, missed...and all of a sudden, heard the roar of the child-sucking toilet. There was a tug on her arm, and Faith staggered back, watching in horror as her sweater peeled off and disappeared halfway down the toilet, one black arm dangling out like a dead snake.

Colleen had been right. The toilet was on steroids.

“Well, this...bites,” she announced, her voice echoing. Her sweater was in the toilet and obviously she wasn’t going to wear it. She picked up the dry sleeve and gave a tentative tug. Whoosh—there was the damn sensor again, and just like that, the sweater was gone.

And Faith was alone in the bathroom in a red skirt, slutty boots, a black 36-D push-up bra and beige Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment slip that stopped under her boobage, the only reason she could still fit into this outfit.

She was trapped. Wait, wait...she had a raincoat in Colleen’s car; Coll had driven tonight, and it had looked like rain, but it hadn’t rained, so she’d left it in the car. There. A plan. She’d just call Colleen, ask her to get the raincoat, bring it in, then they could flee like the wind. Also, she should stop drinking martinis.

She turned for her purse. Dang. Right, it was back at the table.

Faith chewed on her lip for a second, then glanced down and adjusted her right breast. Okay. Time to summon the cavalry.

She tiptoed to the door—why tiptoe, who knew?—and peeked out. To see the actual dining room, she was going to have to leave the bathroom, go down the hallway a few steps and take her chances. But she should be able to flag down Colleen, who, after all, might possibly remember that her oldest friend was in distress.

She opened the door. No one was in sight. One step out. Another step. She crossed her arms over her chest, then over her Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment. Which did she want to hide more, the boobage, or the fat-squishing undergarment? The Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment it was. Another step. She could see three empty tables, but the noise level had escalated. Another tour bus, most likely. One more step and, yes, she could see her purse. Faith leaned forward a little more, ready to hiss at her friend to come save her.

But no.

Colleen wasn’t there. Where the heck—oh, great. She was at the bar, flirting with Greg, the waiter.

And here came a little old lady with a cane.

Without thinking, Faith scrambled back to the bathroom, the air cool on her bare shoulders, and leaped into the farthest stall from the door. God, this was so embarrassing! She stood there, waiting for the woman to take care of business. The seconds ticked past. It was getting chilly, too.

Finally! The toilet roared, the woman exited the stall, then washed her hands (thoroughly, Faith was pained to note). A paper towel. And another one. And one more. Then came the blessed sound of the door squeaking open and wheezing closed.

It dawned abruptly that Faith could’ve asked the woman to get Colleen. She dashed out of the stall, causing the toilet to flush again, but the woman was gone...fast little thing, considering the cane and all. Faith tiptoed as fast as she could down the little hall, hoping to catch her. Nope. Speedy Gonzalez, Senior Edition, was nowhere to be seen. And still no Colleen.

Jeremy, however, was just sitting down at the table nearest the hallway.

Cursing silently, she whirled and dashed again before he could see her, back to the sanctuary of the bathroom.

You know what? It was time to go. There was no exit back here, but there was a window in the last stall. Faith could slip out; it couldn’t be too high from the back of the restaurant. She’d jump down, get her damn raincoat out of Colleen’s car, find a pay phone, if the one by the post office still worked, call Colleen and tell her to get her flirtatious ass out of Hugo’s.

It was a good plan, Faith thought, as far as this type of sans-clothing nightmare went. She stood carefully on the toilet seat (it flushed yet again, the hungry beast). The window wasn’t huge; she did a quick assessment of her boobage and the width of the window. Fairly close, but she could make it. She’d have to squeeze out, rather than climb. But, hey, why not? When was too much humiliation really too much? Microfiber Slim-Nation undergarments and sweater-eating toilets were still better than angry wives and adorable toddlers calling you a whore, right?

She stuck her head out the window. Five or six cars, including Colleen’s, and no people. It would be so, so great if her dad just happened to be pulling up at this moment and could save her. But, no, just a dog near the Dumpster. Feral? Savage? Savage and feral? “Hey, cutie,” she said, trying to evaluate its ferocity. It wagged. “Good puppy,” she said. The dog wagged again. A yellow Lab. Not feral.