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She was drunk when it happened, her only excuse.
Girls night out, stumbling down the sweltering streets of New York, laughing and crying at once.
She doesn’t remember much; a dim room, an amused proprietor, raucous chants egging her on.
Parker stares at the mirror, rubbing a hand across makeup-smeared skin, praying it was a dream.
The proof is inexorable; cradled just below her clavicle, impossible to hide in summer heat. A rose, petite and perfect, curled tenderly around one word – Jarod.
‘Fuck,’ she thinks, ‘He’ll never let me live this down’.
She wonders why she isn’t more upset.