♫ With a taste of a poison paradise
I'm addicted to you
Don't you know that you're toxic? ♪
(Britney Spears—Toxic)

When her headache turned into a raging, roaring migraine, Coralie called Nikita and requested to take the day off. And Nikita, in her borderline inappropriate voice, suggested Coralie's pain was due to a sex hangover. But she agreed to let her sleep the night's events off and not come in to work.

She also commented that there was, to Coralie's dismay, a couple of videos popping up online about her performance, all with stellar reviews.

"Please, don't post anything that you guys filmed yet," Coralie begged, gritting her teeth as she snuck on her underwear. "I... would like to approve it, first. I'm not sure I... enjoy my face when I'm singing."

"You looked hot," said Nikita on the other end, and the sincerity swimming in her tone was palpable. Almost too palpable. "Like you were making love to the microphone, for real. Everyone is loving it, so far. Great reviews. We'll have lots to talk about tomorrow!"

As she hung up, Coralie grumbled; her making love to the microphone wasn't hot, it was dangerous. If Michael saw the footage and somehow detected that she was eye-fucking someone in the crowd, she'd be toast. Discovered. Busted.

Coralie was lucky to have such understanding—albeit a tad too open—supervisors, and resolved to return to her place for the day. She needed to pout about her situation, and far from Ryan.

He was still in the shower—or pretending to be—so she left him a note thanking him for the night, for breakfast, and letting him know she needed some time to herself. She had no clue when she'd see him again. When he was in his moods, he tended to get cruel... like that moment in Paris when she'd thrown macarons in his face for implying that she didn't matter that much to him.

Thinking of that worsened her ache, so she hurried to get ready, diverting her thoughts as she gathered her things. She dressed in last night's outfit, still stinking of her intense, heavily vanilla scented Victoria's Secret perfume and the outdoors, and reminding her of their tryst in the alleyway.

Ugh, why can't I stop fantasizing over that?

Glaring at her platform pumps, she ordered a Lyft to pick her up. No way was she taking the subway feeling like she did, or wearing those shoes, or with her smeared make-up. She'd packed some essentials in her purse for an overnight stay, but if she lingered to fix her face, she'd bump into him. And she didn't want to view his scowl or hear whatever rude comments he'd come up with this time.

An hour or so later, as the Lyft driver dropped her off at the bottom of her apartment building, her phone buzzed once, signaling that she had a message. She opened the device as she hauled her exhausted self up the stairs, and slowed her ascent when she read Ryan's words.

RyRy: Sorry for overreacting. Let me know when I can see you again. I already miss you.

She huffed, sick of his toxic mood shifts, but still inebriated with his delicious lips and how they'd trickled kisses all over her body. She stuffed her phone into her pocket as she unlocked the door and entered the luckily empty pad. Delilah was at work, and Coralie would have the place to herself for a little while.

Kicking off her shoes—Delilah would scream at that, because she hated things out of order—Coralie sauntered into her room and collapsed onto the bed. Her mind was in overdrive, her imagination hyperactive, her thoughts racing through her too fast, making her dizzy. She wasn't sure if the alcohol still in her blood was worsening her anxiety, or if Ryan's remarks had indented deeper into her than she'd expected them to.

Eventually, her eyelids were too heavy and her brain too saturated to function. She fell asleep with one leg dangling out of the covers, and her head squeezed between two pillows.

***

Coralie's nostrils enlarged at the scent of something heavenly—slightly spicy, starchy, and cheesy. "Hmm..."

She opened her eyes, blinked at the darkness welcoming her, and sat up. The aroma came from the kitchen, and she glanced towards her doorway to detect light pouring in, and shadowy movement near where she knew the oven to be.

"You awake yet?" Delilah's voice shocked through her. Another wave of delectable-scented food trickled into her room.

Coralie stretched, fetched her phone, and nearly lept from her bed at the sight of the time—five thirty pm. Had she slept that much? Had she been that out of it, that overwhelmed, that she'd needed to shut her brain off for that long?

"Damn," she said, waddling out of the room and sniffling at Delilah's incredible cooking. "That was one heck of a nap."

Delilah danced in front of the stove and twirled to Coralie. "I figured some of my cheesy mash would wake you up and fix your hangover. Because I assume you drank way too much, yeah?" She returned to the pot. "You never sleep so soundly unless you're hungover as fuck."

Groaning, Coralie rubbed her forehead and opened the fridge, smiling upon sighting a large bottle of 7-Up in the door. "I hate that you know me." She snatched the jug, and a glass, and poured the drink that would hopefully save her from having a stomachache on top of a migraine.

"I also assume the gig went well?" Delilah's hips swayed to the gentle beat coming from her phone's music app. "There were a few videos on Instagram this morning, but you didn't post anything..."

"It," Coralie slurped up half her beverage, "was good, according to the bosses. And..." she winced, "Ryan enjoyed it, too."

"Ah." Delilah's movements slowed, and though she kept her back to Coralie, Coralie knew she was grimacing. "So he came to it, huh? I wondered if you'd be inviting him."

"He insisted." Coralie meandered over to stand beside Delilah, and set her drink down as she sucked in the vapors from the concoction in the pot. Delilah's magic mash was a favorite dish of hers, and they hadn't eaten it together in a while. "And I needed the support, since no one else I knew was going to attend."

Delilah bunched her lips and averted her gaze to a cupboard to her left, on the opposite side from where Coralie was standing. "Look, dude... I'm sorry, okay?" She dipped a wooden spoon into the mash, stirred, then removed the utensil to take a quick bite from it. "I was rash, and I overreacted."

Coralie tried not to snicker.

Seems to be a recurring theme with those I love, lately.

"I understand feelings and sex can be... complicated. And so are long-distance relationships. And so are blasts from the past that resurface and fuck you up. I get it." She wrinkled her nostrils as she finally turned to Coralie. "And in truth, who am I to judge? I've been in multiple affairs myself. But I..." She deposited the spoon and wrapped a hand over Coralie's shoulder. "I don't want you to get hurt. And in such situations... the woman always gets the worst pain. Trust me."

They hugged, then spent the evening on the couch, guzzling down spoonfuls of mash and watching Gilmore Girls while laughing about how well-versed they were in the show's dialogue.

***

After a night of unwinding with Delilah, and uninterrupted sleep—no Ryan nudging her awake to slip between her legs—Coralie woke ready to face the workday. She decided to head into the office early, in case she had paperwork to catch up on, and to show more effort than she had the day before. Nikita would appreciate it, and the bosses would thank her for putting in extra work, and for her dedication. Because as things were now, she wasn't certain everyone at the label took her seriously.

The subway wasn't as busy, and she appreciated the chance to actually sit, for once, instead of standing, cramped against a window. But she became entranced in the music playing in her earbuds, and almost missed her stop. And again, she lost herself as she walked to her office, eyes half-closed as she drank in the lyrics that flowed through her. It was one of her songs, sung by a different artist at the label, and she'd never been prouder to hear her combination of sappy sentences and heartfelt poetry in someone else's voice.

Her feet carried her through the lobby as she zoned out, imagining the singer on a stage, belting out the tune. And she was so wrapped up in her imagery that she didn't react fast enough before slamming into someone coming out of the elevator.

"Shi—" she refrained before blurting out the word she'd wanted to say, "—shoot, I'm sorry."

The being before her barely budged, eyes covered by bulgy sunglasses. "No worries. You were... distracted, it seems."

Coralie perked up as a chill crawled down her spine.

That voice...

"Um... hi? Do I... know you?" She cocked her head, squinting at the person—she believed it was a man, but didn't want to assume and come off as an asshole. His silhouette was manly, with sculpted but narrow shoulders, and a small yet somewhat square torso. A baggy knit sweater draped over most of his upper-half, and he wore black, skinny jeans with holes in the knees. A pair of used loafers adorned his feet, and he stood about an inch taller than Coralie.

He tucked a strand of his medium length blond hair behind his fairly large ears. "Wow, took you a minute." His deep, scratchy voice further confirmed Coralie's assumption that he was a man. But it was when he removed his sunglasses that the shock of his identity truly captured her. "It's only been... what, weeks since I first saw you here? Jeez."

She'd recognize those glistening, unreal, emerald eyes anywhere. Never had she seen another pair like them; so ethereal, so filled with foggy memories of drunken parties and close encounters with cops. So loaded with meaning, with questions she never got answers to, with a silent poetry she'd never been able to put into words. How many times had she drowned in them, or woken up to them staring into her, or witnessed them gazing at her from head to toe, lingering on her back-side?

With the eyes in view, she started to memorize the rest of him. Those lips she'd watched in awe as he told jokes and sang sweet symphonies and charmed every woman and man in the vicinity. Those same lips that she'd kissed occasionally, after heavy drinking contests, or if she hadn't scored someone else to sleep with that night. And that she'd glowered at when he egged her on, urged her to push her limits, to hop over her boundaries, to do the craziest shit she'd ever envisioned possible. The hair—the hair, always so luscious and tangle-free, smelling of minty shampoo and cigarette smoke. She'd twirled it around her fingers many times, its texture silky and soothing. Speaking of fingers—he had those short and chubby guitar-playing ones, nail-bitten but soft, and godly in the bedroom, doing things to her lower lips that no one ever came close to mimicking. Not even Ryan.

"Chester?" The name struggled to escape from her mouth. It had been so long since she'd even thought of it, or thought of him. She'd never met anyone else with that name, never needed to pronounce it, envision it, remember it.

"Hi, Cora." His smirk poured more recollections into her, threatening to overflow her mind.

Millions of flashes took over her consciousness. The partying, the imbibing, the dancing, the sex, the insane nights she'd needed days and days to recover from. He defined her early twenties, when they'd indulge in everything forbidden and nothing legal. Arm-in-arm with her partner in crime—with Chester—they were unstoppable. He'd been her best friend, her worst enemy, her closest confidante for years. A man of experiments, who slept with any gender, who drank more than she could keep track, but who never had a hangover, ever. Refreshed, perfect, composed, always finding the right words to say, always there to pick her up from whatever dingy location she'd ended up in.

Chester Chase... she hadn't seen him in years, yet here he was, in New York City, in her work building. And she couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't ask him why the fuck he was there.

♥♥♥