Damned 'cause I did {Hannah}

[JOHNNY SULLIVAN]

Johnny, valuing honesty above all things, couldn’t say it had been an awful evening. He couldn’t even say it had been okay. What he could say was that Down the Rabbit Hole was the place to be last night, as it usually was for that one night a month when they held “masquerades.” He could say he’d met the loveliest lady in the world, they’d danced with music swimming in their veins, and then they’d made their way to the bathroom and made out in a stall until it was determined that the best thing to do would be for them to leave in Johnny’s car and crash back at his place. He was only helping out. Jonathon Sullivan was just a real swell guy; anyone would say so.

He couldn’t remember her face. They fucked with the lights off, simply because the bed was too inviting and they were too drunk or high or amped up to bother with anything but taking off clothes and being close and doing a different sort of dance that apparently, both knew very well. She had long hair. He remembered that. And blue eyes, and she danced like a fucking Brazilian or something, which made absolutely no sense but God, she’d been good in bed. Totally worth the headache.

Suddenly, he found himself praying. Eyes closed, still flopped on the other side of the mattress but able to hear this stranger’s breathing—Foxy, she’d called herself, and it still made him laugh without the high—he hoped to all things bright and beautiful and worth having that she wasn’t ugly. She couldn’t be. Not with that ass. It would be a bigger waste than Julia Clarke’s fourth grade tits. He wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t. He had to see. Just to make sure—couldn’t have another experience like the other month. The thought made him shudder. Two seconds. That was nothing. He could look, and if she was pretty or even beautiful, he could admire her a bit before rolling over and dry swallowing a congratulatory Advil. Or if she did turn out to be a coyote—horror of horrors, Frankie would never hear about that—he could flop back over, swallow two and pretend it never happened. Easy peasy.

With the moment of truth approaching, Johnny took a deep breath and counted down. He still hadn’t opened his eyes, and couldn’t help but think that maybe it would be a better idea to just fall back asleep for real.

Fucking chicken. Like a band-aid. Quick and easy.

He opened his eyes, rolled over, and sat up. “Jesus Christ—” the horror was tangible as his eyes widened. No way. No fucking way.

“Oh, shit—Shitshitshit—” in an instinctive (and rather uncharacteristic) flight reaction, Johnny leapt out of bed and scrambled to put some clothes on, hoping against all hope he could get out of there before she woke up. Then she’d be gone when he got home and he could take an entirely different mixture of pills and never again deal with the fact that either Hannah Vulpini had a loose identical twin, or he’d just fucked the living daylights out ofan older version of his best friend’s baby sister.