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ChapterEighteen
I cometo my senses with the worst headache.
No. To call this a headache is an understatement. My head feels like it’s been run through an industrial-strength blender.
Did an NFL player borrow my head? If so, he clearly played without a helmet… and lost.
I groan.
If pain could be turned into a smell, my headache would reach the levels of taranka. Or fermented boiled cabbage. Or one of those numbered Chanel atrocities.
Oh, and headache aside, why do I feel so cold, like I’m naked? And sticky. I feel very sticky for some reason. Not to mention, there’s a soreness in my lower body. More than one type of soreness.
What the fuck?
A male groan mirrors my own from somewhere.
Okay, so wherever I am, I have company in my misery.
Time to pry open my eyes. Except… my eyelids seem glued together. With effort, I force my blinkers open—only to be blinded by light coming through giant windows.
Odd. Wasn’t I on a plane?
I let my eyes adjust and look out the nearest window.
The Las Vegas Strip. Wow. I must’ve blacked out sometime after the plane took off—understandable, given how much I drank.
I look down.
Skunk.
The reason I feel naked is because I am.
The reason I feel sticky is because I’m covered in some white substance that smells delicious. And I do mean covered—like it would be a challenge to locate a clean inch of me.
I hear another male groan.
Turning, I locate its source: Art—also naked and just as covered in the white substance as I am, which is a shame.
I sit up.
It’s a mistake. The room spins out of control, making me uber queasy.
All right. I don’t think I’m sober yet. Not even a little bit. Which makes sense in that it explains why this room smells like a distillery blew up. Although I still smell Art’s yummy scent and sugary confections of all kinds.
Doing my best not to worsen my headache, I scan my surroundings.
Holy sweetness.
Every single surface of the room is covered in desserts. Cupcakes and different kinds of cakes, brownies, doughnuts, tarts, fudges, cookies, pies, melted ice cream, macaroons, muffins, parfaits, panna cotta, snickerdoodles, scones, candy, souffles—the list goes on and on. But what catches my attention are the whipped cream bottles, dozens of them sprawled around the room.
I dip my finger into a big lump of sticky stuff around my left boob and carefully taste it.
Yep.
Whipped cream, cherries, and little bits of all the sweets I see around me.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
