Stiletto Sisterhood

Original Edition: PRIYA | Panty-less in Manhattan

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Priyanka Seth was always the girl with a plan. Arriving at a life-changing job interview—sans panties—was not part of it. 

Slumped on the edge of the bed, Priya resisted the urge to drop her head in her hands and scream. She'd awoken barely five minutes ago, face first in a pillow—too soft to be from her own bed—and her skull splitting to the irritating noise of her phone's alarm merciless in its demand to rouse her from a tequila induced haze. Groggily, she'd reached for the vibrating offender on the nightstand and blinked against the glare of the screen, too bright in the blacked-out suite.

The time read 7:00 am on a Sunday, not all that alarming for an early riser—but it was the flashing alert underneath had her jerking upright with a frantic squeal and tumbling ass first out of bed.

MNS Interview: TODAY – 8am

Snatches of last night came back in halting increments. She'd decided to go out alone to drown her sorrows at a new, trendy bar. Drowning her sorrows meant a line of tequila shots as far as her bank account would carry her, or when she got too damn drunk to feel so brutally betrayed anymore. Whichever came first.

Somewhere in there she obviously met a guy, and there was a glimmer about an email, which a quick search in her inbox confirmed, sent out after midnight by Ms. Nagao's Executive Assistant, notifying Priya that her 10 am Monday morning interview was being shifted to Sunday at 8 am, and could she confirm?

Like a total f*cking moron—she had.

Scheisse. 

Now here she was stranded in a hotel room which she was willing to bet was in the middle of Manhattan, and put her close to the firm but too damn far to make it home to shower and slip into her pristine, tailored suit. The one that cost an obscene two thousand dollars and three months to make that she'd planned to wear just for this pinnacle moment.

Far as she could tell she was alone with nothing other than a room service trolley with covered dishes of food and a pot of coffee, warmed by a little electrical plate. Compliments of her mystery man, she mused—as there was no way she could pretend she'd shacked up in a ritzy hotel alone. And though he may have dodged her in the early morning, he'd at least been kind enough to leave her with a fully loaded breakfast. Eggs, bacon, pancakes and several slices of toast, freshly squeeze citrus juices and a freshly brewed espresso that would bring a tear of joy to a true Italians eye.

Not that she had time to savor much of anything.

While diverting her efforts between ironing out her clothes from last night, Priya inhaled as many carbs as possible and scarfed down rolled up pancakes as well as several slices of toast.

She found her skirt by the foot of the bed, she'd slept in her blouse and bra, both shoes were tucked near the door with her purse on top. Everything was accounted for. Save one: her panties. A pair of hot pink boy shorts with a lacy scalloped edge—hard to miss and even harder to lose.

And yet, in a suite of 700 square feet she'd done just that. 

Blitzing through the shower, Priya finger brushed her teeth with the complimentary bottle of toothpaste, yanked on her clothes, wrapped her long damp hair in a tight bun, and assessed the final results in the mirror.

F*ck. Me.  

She looked like a bloated, hung over, hot mess. God, she'd killed for some mascara to at least brighten up her bloodshot eyes. A tube of lipstick. Something! If Caitriona were here, she'd dub the train-wreck ensemble: Tequila-Hoe-Chic. #NailedIt!