Put Me in Detention
Meghan Quinn
Prologue
CORA
“Sweet nectar of life, please don’t ever leave me,” I groan while rubbing my cheek against a stone of chilled bliss.
Pound.
Pound.
Pound.
Gurgle.
And . . . repeat.
The bad-decision-driven rhythm of my body. Three pounds, vibrating through my head, followed by a very unsettling gurgle.
The only thing keeping me alive is the cool touch of the firm surface beneath me.
“Cora? Cora, where are you?” I hear Stella call out from far away. “Cora, did you order breakfast?”
Gurgle.
Nope. No, I did not.
Definitely did not order breakfast.
“Has anyone seen Cora?” Stella asks.
“Is she not in her room?” Greer asks, her voice rather upbeat, a stark contrast to how I’m feeling.
“Do you associate Stella with idiocy?” The snap of Keiko’s voice comes in sharp. “She’s an intelligent female, smart enough to deduct from the obvious places as to where our comrade would be reposing. Why treat her with such—”
“I didn’t check her room,” Stella says.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Keiko huffs. “Analyze her place of slumber before you query individuals of her location. Have you learned nothing as an educator?”
Lucky for us, and I mean that sarcastically, Keiko has been a bit . . . snappy lately. Greer, Stella, and I think we know why, though Keiko, on the other hand, seems clueless.
Ahem.
Bun in the oven.
“I’m . . . here,” I mumble as I start to wiggle my fingers. Yup, those are working. I then check my toes.
Hurray, still intact.
Limbs are accounted for. What about torso? Everything good there?
My stomach is pressed against the floor, and I smooth it along the cold tile—yup, still there, but . . . why is the chilliness of the surface beneath me so strong? Why does it feel as if I’m not wearing any articles of clothing?
“Did you hear that?” Greer asks. “I think it came from the entryway.”
Footsteps parade down the hall to the entryway of the ornately expansive hotel suite I booked for my divorce-cation—a well-thought-out, meticulously planned, and obnoxious ceremony that celebrated the end of my nuptials to Keenan—the one who shall not be named.
The devil himself.
An immoral human with a loose zipper in his pants and a penchant for sleeping with women who weren’t his wife.
My ex-husband.
Cue the Maury Show-style boos.
“Maybe she ordered us breakfast,” Stella says, drawing closer.
“I could use some bacon,” Greer adds. From the proximity of her voice, I think she’s now in the same room as me. Crap. “And some—whoa—uh, Cora . . . you’re, uh, you’re naked.”
Yup, that’s what I thought.
Naked as the day I was born.
The front of my body is pressed against the floor, my legs are squeezed together, and my ass is feeling the cool breeze of the air conditioner blowing from the vent above.
“Wow,” Stella says, “you have a really nice ass.”
“I’m clenching,” I say, for Lord knows what reason.
“She does have a nice ass,” Greer says. “Even if she’s clenching, it’s still all round and bubbly.”
“From a quick analysis of her posterior chain I can rapidly deduce that she spends more time in the gym than she announces,” Keiko chimes in. I do spend a good portion of time in the gym, especially ever since I left . . . thou who shall not be named, or TWSNBN.
“Are you putting in squat time?” Stella asks.
“Uh, could someone grab me a blanket or towel?” I whisper.
I lift my head and turn it so I’m now facing my friends. Stella and Greer are both wearing oversized shirts from their men. Stella is drowning in Romeo’s Bobbies shirt, while Greer is wearing one of Arlo’s Forest Heights tees. And Keeks, well, she’s wearing an ankle-length floral nightgown that I’m pretty sure she purchased at Talbots.
“If you must know, I’ve been squatting with bands lately.”
“Well, it’s showing.” Greer claps. “It’s a great ass.”
“Structurally sound,” Keiko adds.
“Jealous of those glutes,” Stella says.
“Well, thank you, but towel, please. Something is poking my boob and I’d rather you not see everything I have to offer.”
Greer grabs my robe from the couch and chucks it at me. I do my best to maneuver on the floor and cover myself up before lifting, only to notice . . .