Page 1 of Walk of Shame
Chapter One
Ashley
The walk of shame.
Kill me. Just put me out of my misery. All I want is to crawl into a hole and die of humiliation.
I squint my caked, mascaraed eyes at the dawn breaking across the Chicago skyline before digging my sunglasses from my bag and slipping them on as my throat tightens and my eyes well.
Why, Ashley? Why? Why? Why?
What is wrong with me?
Head throbbing, I start down the near deserted street, my high heels hitting the concrete a reminder of my transgressions. My only saving grace is that it’s five thirty on a Sunday morning, and the Lakeview neighborhood is still quiet.
At least no one except taxi drivers and the lone exercise fanatic will bear witness to my walk in what’s obviously last night’s little black dress attire. I’m a hot mess, with my just-fucked hair, ruined makeup and too swollen mouth, but I’ll pretend anyone passing by isn’t smug.
I sigh, long and mournful. Last night being the culmination of the gigantic shit storm that’s taken over my life for the past six months.
My downward spiral of humiliation began when the love of my life Trevor Whitmore fell in love with a dancer. Well, in fairness to him, it wasn’t like he cheated on me, because we hadn’t even been going out. It only felt like a betrayal because I’d been stupidly and blindly infatuated with him to the point of obsession.
Which makes me sound like a real idiot, a shame, considering I’m plenty smart in other areas of my life. I come from a good, loving family, I have great friends and I’m the top pharma sales rep in my region.
Only, I’ve never made smart decisions when it comes to men.
With guys, I always turn into that girl you love to hate. I don’t even know why. Maybe because my dad spoiled me too much, or my mom was one of those moms that insisted I was special and perfect. Maybe because in high school, growing up in my small Central Ohio hometown, I was the head cheerleader, and the absolute shit, adored by everyone.
I’m sure at one point I was sensible about men, but Trevor changed all that for me. He was the first boy I’d actually coveted. I’d met him my junior year of college, fallen in lust at first sight, and become completely, obnoxiously infatuated with him. And, like a lot of girls, I confused his desire to use me for sex, with love. The more dismissive he became, the harder I tried to hold on, and the farther he slipped away.
Except when he was too lazy to go through the process of hitting on another girl at the party we were at. Then we’d circle each other like preying tigers before going in for the kill.
It never once occurred to me to say no.
My friend Layla called him my kryptonite, and she was exactly right. I was caught in a vicious cycle. He’d leave me in the middle of the night, I’d get all strong and indignant, insisting I wouldn’t let him use me anymore, but then time would pass, nobody else would catch my interest, and I’d start to jones for him. I’d see him at some bar or party. He’d look at me with those blue eyes, give me that smile, and like an idiot, I’d swear tonight would be the night I’d make him love me.
This cycle lasted for years—far too many than a girl with a high IQ should ever admit to—until the last time we hooked up. A week after we’d been together he’d met a dancer (aka stripper) and had fallen instantly in love. They eloped to Vegas three weeks later. After years of telling me he doesn’t do commitment he married that…that…woman in a month!
Yeah, yeah, I know. Oldest story in the book. I get it. I’m an idiot. It’s my own stupid fault. I got what I deserved. Believe me, nothing you say isn’t something I haven’t said to myself.
But anyway, let’s move on to humiliation number two.
Like any proper scorned woman I seek revenge, because of course I need to make him pay. He needs to suffer. Hurt. If the past months have taught me anything it’s revenge doesn’t lead to the clearest head, so I conveniently ignore the fact that a guy has to remember you exist for your plot to work.
A minor detail that had no effect on my bloodthirsty rage.
Naturally, I do the worst thing I can think of. The day after I find out Trevor’s married, I get his best friend drunk with the goal of seducing him because nothing says fuck you like sleeping with your ex’s bestie. My evil plan worked, but I overestimated the amount of alcohol I fed him and he can’t get it up! And, in typical male fashion, he blames me. Me!
I’m a pretty, long-haired blonde with blue eyes, with 32DDs and a twenty-six inch waist. He’s an overweight, unemployed slacker that’s starting to bald.
And he had the gall to say it was my fault.
I mean, sure I put on a good show and ripped him a new one, but my self-esteem can only take so many beatings. And while I slammed out of the door like the ultimate diva, I’d felt rejected and small. I’d never admit it to anyone but I went home and cried like a baby.
Like I really wasn’t pretty enough to get a guy off.
If only that sorry affair had been rock bottom, but no, there’s humiliation number three.
In a mad rush to find the love of my life as quickly as possible so everyone can stop feeling sorry for me behind my back, I join match.com and go on a series of dates so bad I contemplate becoming a lesbian. I mean, I don’t understand it—I’m smart, I make over six figures, and I’m good looking—but that’s not good enough on a dating site where fives think they’re entitled to nines.