Excerpt of Gentlemen Prefer Succubi by Jill Myles

It had obviously been one hell of a night if I couldn’t recall why I was waking up in a Dumpster.

I blinked a few times, staring at the sky overhead. A Dumpster? Surely not. But between the flies, the stench, and the garbage bags surrounding me, I didn’t know what else it could be. My left hand rested on something clammy and wet, and I hoped that it was an old newspaper and not something more sinister. I didn’t even want to think about what was tickling my bare toes.

I sat up, cradling my throbbing head and trying to think. What the hell had happened? I didn’t normally find myself comatose and drooling amid piles of garbage. Shit. My boss was going to be sooo totally pissed at me.

Something itched against my breast and I reached up to scratch, finding a hard plastic card shoved into the side of my bra.

A room key for a hotel. The Grand National here in New City, Wyoming.

My mind regurgitated a series of drunken memories from my bender last night. I’d met a man at the bar of the swanky hotel just as the sun was cresting into dawn and I was polishing off my latest martini. He’d walked into the bar and, since the place was deserted, headed straight for me and bought me another drink. I’d let him. I mean, hell, free alcohol.

He was even hot to boot, which was a nice change from the creeps that normally tried to pick me up. I vaguely remembered an amazing body, a voice that could stop traffic, and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen.

That wasn’t the only thing I remembered. My brain flashed another image into my head, of a rather large part of my date’s anatomy. Which I’d seen in close detail. “Ohmigod. I’m a slut,” I moaned, burying my face in my hands.

I’d never had a one-night stand before, but by the time I’d met my Blue-Eyed Casanova, I was eight or twelve martinis into an all-nighter and three sheets to the wind. I couldn’t remember a darn thing except those eyes and that smile. And his dick.

That bothered me on levels I didn’t even want to think about. I sighed and brushed a wet wad of trash off my hand and straightened my thick, smudged glasses on my face. At least they hadn’t been wrecked in my night in the garbage.

“Who’s there?” a warbling voice called, and I clambered through the trash to the edge of the Dumpster, peering over the metal side.

A bearded older man—homeless, if the stocking cap and reek of whiskey were any indication—stared up at me in surprise. A familiar cute black-and-pink handbag was tucked under his left arm.

“Hey, that’s mine.” I pointed a grimy finger at the purse. “Give it back.”

Much to my surprise, he handed it up to me with a wide-eyed expression. “I thought you were dead. Sorry.” What an odd statement. I frowned down at him.

“Sorry, no. Do you have anything else of mine I might be needing?” My legs were devoid of pantyhose, and my bare toes wiggled between the garbage. My shoes were nowhere to be seen, and I wasn’t even sure I still had panties on—all of which was making me extremely nervous. Resisting the urge to cry, I swallowed hard.

“I didn’t take them. I didn’t take anything else.” The bum sounded rather miffed that I had the gall to accuse him of stealing.

I ignored him and began to dig through the garbage, trying not to think too hard about what I was touching. Sure enough, my favorite pink-and-black Steve Madden pumps were there underneath a pizza box. I shook them out to be safe.

With my belongings in hand, I swung a leg over the side of the Dumpster and began to climb out. I’d probably given the bum a flash of panties (if I still had them), but I didn’t care.

He took a swig from his brown-bag-covered bottle. “You were dead, you know,” he pointed out. “You weren’t breathing.”

I slid down onto the pavement with a thump, losing a few strands of chow mein that had stuck to my skirt. “Um, what exactly makes you say that?” I asked as I put on my shoes.

“I’m serious,” he protested. “I checked. You weren’t breathing. I even saw your boyfriend dump you here. I wouldn’t take a purse from a live girl.”

I looked up from picking a noodle off my shoe. “You did? Blond guy? Blue eyes?” Big package?

The bum shook his head and took another swig of alcohol. “Naw. Black-haired. Real tall. Nice coat. He kissed your cheek and dumped you in there.”

I didn’t recall Bachelor No. 2. Good lord, what had I done last night? My date had definitely been blond. An image flashed through my mind—a memory?—of us in the shower, my arms twined around his neck while he lifted my bare leg to fit around his hips . . . I wanted to cry. I didn’t know if I was upset that I’d slept with a stranger, or that he was hot and I couldn’t remember very much. I sighed and rubbed my neck. A sharp pain shot through my skin, like I’d rubbed it raw during my sleep. I touched the spot with careful fingers and found it sticky. Yet another gift from the garbage. Ugh. I looked over at my drunken companion. “What time is it?”

The bum checked his plastic wristwatch. “It’s eleven a.m. Tuesday,” he announced.

“No, it’s not. Today’s Monday.” I remembered it, because we were scheduled to be short a docent at the museum today. Monday.

“It’s Tuesday,” he repeated. “You’ve been in that garbage since yesterday. Dead.”