I finished the job. Like I said, I’m a professional. Though I can’t say I gave the happy couple my full attention. Not like they noticed or anything. My first instinct was to run after Ashley and make her tell me exactly what the hell happened, but I quickly realized that if we both left it would be very, very bad for business. And though I could admit I had a very real—though extremely premature—crush on the Runaway Whore, business still came first.

Sorry, mom.

So once Maureen Pierce was laid sprawled across the king-size bed totally spent and with a satisfied smile to match, I took it as a sign that my work there was done. David cut me a $10,000 check and I quickly took it and ran to the elevator, anxious to confront Ashley.

I didn’t have to go far.

I spotted her face-down at the bar downstairs. If it wasn’t for the fact that I had memorized what the back of her head looked like, I wouldn’t have noticed her at all. I approached her hesitantly, not quite sure which of her versions I was about to encounter.

“Ash,” I said softly, gently placing my right hand on her shoulder.

I expected her to be startled, but instead she turned around slowly on her barstool wearing one the many faces people wear when they are completely and utterly wasted.

“Hi,” she replies, grabbing my hand and holding it in her hers.

“Hey…are you ok?”

“Are you…are you ok, Spencer?”

“I’m ok.”

She brings her face really close to mine, “No, you’re not. You think I’m stupid?”

“No, I don’t. And really, I’m totally ok. I’m fine.”

“Well so am I then.”

“Good…great. We’re both ok.”

“I’m not ok.”

I sigh, wanting to shake her and hold her all at the same time. I sit on the stool next to her, using the grip she has on my hands to steady her.

“What happened up there?” I ask, not even sure if she can answer that in her present state.

“I couldn’t do it.”

“I noticed. But why? What went wrong? Was it me?”

“Uh-huh,” she says, taking another sip of her drink.

“You should get out of here. Are you hungry?”