I think Dr. Hottie’s opinion of me was improving too. We’d had two more meetings where I managed to not make a complete ass of myself. We had come to an unspoken agreement that, unless there were more complaints, we just weren’t going to talk about what happened during our first meeting with Oakley. I was starting to feel like maybe I wouldn’t fail out of this internship and fuck up my life...again. I checked my step tracker to see where I was for the day so far. Four M&M’s was about seventeen calories. I laced up my shoes and headed out the door to run the stairs in our building.

I was just about to start my workout when my phone rang. I sighed before checking the caller ID. Asshole Davis was calling. Lucky me.

“Hello. How may I help you?” I answered, using the customer service voice I’d perfected while working at a call center last year.

“Amanda?” he asked. Oakley sounded out of breath and nervous. “I need your help.”

I listened to the background and frowned when I heard loud music and chatter thudding in dull echoes through the phone speaker. The music sounded like that weird German electronic dance shit. “What’s wrong?” I asked as I walked down the stairs and outside. My heart was racing. What had he done now?

“You’re my publicist, right?” he asked. It was the first time he’d sounded unsure since I’d first spoken to him. The absence of cockiness in his voice made me even more apprehensive.

“Yeah?” I responded, kind of wishing someone else was his publicist instead.

“Well, I have a fucking mess for you to clean up. I’ll text you the address.” Oakley hung up, and I grumbled to myself as his text came through.

He was at a frat house. Perfect.

* * *

I held my breath the entire Uber ride to the frat house, having no idea what I was about to walk into. It was a little unsettling hearing Oakley sound like anything other than an arrogant ass. What the fuck had happened? The driver pulled up to the curb to let me out, and there were two drunk sorority girls sitting on the front lawn by the bushes. Drunk Girl One was holding Drunk Girl Two’s hair while she threw up. Oh gross, was that a fucking mushroom? Not only were they emptying the contents of their stomachs on the lawn, but their bodycon dresses were rolled up to their hips, flashing their neon thongs to the world.

Been there, done that. Solidarity, sister.