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I gingerly prod Art.
He groans but doesn’t open his eyes.
I taste the stuff covering him. Same as me—a mix of every dessert known to sweet tooths the world over.
Flabbergasted, I scan the room for more clues, but what I see only deepens my confusion.
There’s a gas mask on a nearby writing desk. A fancy dress and lingerie are next to it. Under the desk is a pair of blue Manolo Blahniks.
What the hell? Did I rob Carrie Bradshaw, or is this a Sex and the City-themed dream?
But no. This headache would wake me from any dream, plus they didn’t have gas masks on Sex and the City. Nor did—
The sound of tiny scurrying feet jerks my gaze to the other side of the room. I gape at the source of the sound and blink a few times, unsure if the vodka in my blood is making me see things, or if the dream theory needs stronger consideration.
A super-cute furry creature is holding an oatmeal cookie in two little paws, in a very human-like fashion. A rounded, very fluffy creature that looks like a well-fed squirrel with some ferret thrown in, and maybe also a bit of a bunny. Only its fur looks way more velvety.
Wait a sec. I think I know what kind of fur that is. My mom claims she stopped listening to Madonna’s music over her wearing a coat that matches the fur of this creature exactly.
Chinchilla.
Huh. I didn’t think they were this cute. Maybe Mom had a point.
But what’s a chinchilla doing here, in Vegas? I don’t believe they just run around the Mojave Desert, let alone the Strip. They’re native to someplace in South America.
The chinchilla locks eyes with me, and it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to figure out what it would say, if it could:
I know I look delicious, but don’t even think about it. You’ll get a stomachache, plus my fur will get stuck in your throat like a hairball from hell.
I stop making the critter nervous and look at Art instead.
Does he know what the hell is happening?
Maybe. But before I wake him, I need to consider the elephant in the room—the soreness. Two types, to be exact, but one very specific, post-sex kind of soreness. When combined with naked Art, even with the headache, I can sleuth out what happened.
Rule One got broken, majorly.
Which leaves the second soreness, a stinging sensation on my lower belly that reminds me of a sunburn. Have I caught some weird STD?
I carefully wipe away the whipped cream/dessert mixture covering that spot and gasp, loudly.
I have a tattoo.
A full-on tattoo.
But that’s not the worst of it.
The tattoo is an image of an arrow pointing at my pussy with an all-caps message that boldly states, “ONLY 4 MR. BIG.”
