Perfect 10. Erin McCarthy

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      Uh-oh.

      It took her an agonizing minute to figure out how to bypass all the initial demands her phone was making of her. Honestly, it was worse than her mother and no, she would not like the GPS enabled right this second, she freaking knew where she was. But when she finally got to her profile and saw what exactly her glorious little piece of electronics had synced, she wanted a GPS to guide her to the nearest hole to crawl her hipster ass into and die.

      Her BootyBook app had synced with her personal page.

      Now every detail about every guy that she had logged in to her handy, and slightly tawdry, app equivalent of a little black book was now visible to everyone. Including ratings on their manners, clothes, conversation during the date, and yes, their penis size if she had hooked up with him. Along with whether or not she’d had an orgasm, the quality of foreplay, and her overall general impression of his sexual prowess.

      OMG became OMFG.

      Delete, delete, delete. Her hands started to shake, her armpits cranked out massive quantities of sweat, and her heart started to race so fast she wondered if a stress heart attack was possible at twenty-four. “Come on, come on,” she muttered to her phone, evil little piece of shit that it was, and clicked and scrolled and pinched and read, trying to figure out how in the hell she could get rid of what she had just seen. Forever.

      When she thought she’d severed the mysterious connection she refreshed the site and finally remembered to breathe. It was gone. She called Samantha. “Check and see if it’s still there!” she blurted out without a greeting, her phone slipping in her sweaty hand. There wasn’t air-conditioning strong enough in the world to prevent clammy palms in this situation.

      “It’s gone!” Samantha said, her voice triumphant. “Thank God. What the hell happened?”

      “I don’t know, exactly.” Regardless of the fact that leaning against a subway window was never a good hygiene choice, she needed the support. She sagged backward. “But it doesn’t matter how. It did and I seriously don’t want to think about how many people saw it.” Given the commonality of instant notifications on status updates, it could be a lot. Everyone on her friends list. Including her mother.

      Her phone dinged in her ear. And then again.

      Katrina smacked the back of her head into the window so hard she actually managed to garner a side glance from the man sitting next to her, no small feat in New York, where eye contact on the subway was a social no-no. “I’m going to die,” she told Samantha.

      The man looked away again. He so didn’t care.

      “I’ll meet you at your place,” Samantha told her. “I’ll bring wine.”

      “Thanks.” It was something.

      “We’ll strategize damage control. Don’t freak.”

      Yeah, too late. “All right, thanks. See you in a bit. Bye.” Tucking her hair behind her ear, Katrina bit her lip and gave her phone a sidelong tentative glance as it rested in her lap on her red skinny jeans, afraid to see who the latest texts were from.

      Except one was from Drew Jordan, her best friend at NYU, her secret crush for four years, then her onetime lover after a boozy night at an art exhibit. Her throat caught as she frantically read the text, all too aware of what he must have seen.