Free Dunkin and Donuts by Daralyse Lyons

straight. We’ve learned our lesson about playing tricks at parties. Sometimes, they backfire. Tonight’s party is being thrown by Antony Corbett, one of the practice’s wealthiest clients who lives in a penthouse apartment in Center City.
    “I never knew that physicians socialized with their patients.”
    “I try not to,” Dunkin says as we walk arm-in-arm, into the lobby. “This is sort of a necessary evil. This particular patient is a close personal friend of Scott’s and has gotten us a lot of connections that we wouldn’t have if not for Corbett. It’s sort of incestuous.”
    I kiss him on the cheek. “Speaking of incest…You look incredibly handsome tonight.”
    “Um, thanks.” He chuckles. “Although you may not want to reference incest next time you come on to me.”
    I nuzzle against him and he smiles down at me seductively.
    “You look beautiful yourself,” Dunkin says, then shakes his head at me—never a good sign. “Shayla? Don’t take this the wrong way, but, is there something wrong with your shirt?”
    I look down and notice that, indeed, I have put my shirt on backwards. It looks ridiculous. I bought this slinky black, sequined number that, when worn correctly, shows off my figure nicely. Crap! Now, I’ll have to find a place where I can change inconspicuously. We’re already in the lobby and it’s too late to turn back now. The doorman greets us with a broad smile.
    “You must be here for the Corbett party,” he says.
    “Yes, that’s right,” Dunkin nods.
    “Far elevator on your left. It only makes one stop—at the penthouse.”
    “My shirt’s on backwards,” I hiss in Dunkin’s ear as he guides me toward the elevator. “I have to fix it before we go up there.”
    “Just turn it around on the ride up to the penthouse,” he whispers back. “No one will ever know.”
    Unfortunately for me, there are two breathless guests sprinting for the elevator after us. Damn. Just my luck. It would be rude not to hold the elevator for them considering the fact that the female member of the pair is brandishing her handkerchief at us and shouting, “Hold that elevator!”
    “Give me your coat,” I hiss at Dunkin who takes the hint and immediately wraps his coat around me so no one can see my fashion faux pas.
    Only, now, I won’t be able to change in the elevator and the minute we arrive at Antony’s apartment, they’ll offer to take my coat. Fuck.
    All the while, making small talk with these strangers on the ride up to the party, I am thinking, my brain desperately trying to figure out a way out of yet another embarrassing situation.
    Right before the elevator stops, I say, “Oh damn, honey, I forgot something in the car. We’d better go get it.”
    “Right,” he says, understanding immediately.
    The doors open, but neither Dunkin nor I make a move to get off.
    “We’ll catch you later,” he tells the couple. “We’re just gonna get something out of the car first.”
    They disembark. As soon as the elevator doors close behind me, I thrust Dunkin’s coat at him, whip off my shirt, turn it around, and then put it on the right way. Phew! Finally, I’ve avoided an embarrassing situation—for once. I seem to be making a fool out of myself quite a lot lately and look forward to having a chance to redeem myself tonight. I silently vow that I will make a good impression at this party. When the elevator doors open on the ground floor to an influx of party guests, I’m all smiles.
    Dunkin and I ride the elevator up to the top floor—again—as if nothing has happened. We get out and right away are greeted by a dozen mingling partygoers.
    “Oh Shayla!” booms a voice in the crowd that I recognize from some of Dunkin’s other work parties. Barney Temple—an ass of epic proportions, already completely drunk, his arm around his poor, pretty, long-suffering wife—says, “Nice tits. Didn’t know we were in for a peep show.”
    I have no idea what he’s talking about, but my