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Chapter 4
Mysti May
10:13 AM SATURDAY
“You look tense,” Brendon comments, cocking his head to indicate that he wants me to follow him out of the bedroom. “How about some breakfast, sweetheart?”
“Brendon, just answer me. Please!” I’m begging now. “What happened last night?”
“You must be joking.” He looks back at me as he walks out to the kitchen. “You don’t remember?”
I follow behind him, avoiding all eye contact with his bare ass tightening in front of me.
Yeah, that didn’t last long.
God, he has the most beautiful ass. So toned and smooth. I scroll my eyes down to see his thick thigh muscles holding him up, watching as every fiber of them ripples when he walks forward.
“Does it look like I’m…” I freeze once I enter the living room of the suite, which looks more like the aftermath of the Britney Spears Circus tour.
It’s been completely trashed with random bachelorette and show-girl attire, all of which is hanging from the random artwork and side tables. There’s even something that looks a lot like a blow-up doll with a purple strap-on lying on the couch.
I squint at it, rubbing away the leftover mascara.
Yeah, actually, that’s exactly what that is.
Apparently, her name is Henrietta, too. It’s written in red lipstick across her forehead.
The smell of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol wafts in the air, and my stomach gurgles when I breathe it in. The hangover from hell hits me—hard.
God, I so don’t want to puke right now.
I cover my mouth to help cover the smell, and I feel something on my cheek. I peel off the sticker hesitantly, and it says, “INSERT HERE.”
Hardy har har. So clever.
I throw it on the floor and start to move forward. I maneuver my way through the obstacle course filled with random couch cushions, used and unopened condoms, and pieces of clothing. It’s an odd combination.
There are a few lamps turned upside down, with one flickering off like I’m in some horror movie.
Which is quite fitting given the circumstances—a blonde girl, topless and cluelessly walking forward into the unknown. And like all those well-used tropes, this is where the unmarried non-virgin will die—that’s me.
Fucking hell.
Out the corner of my eye, I see a couple sleeping on the other side of the couch, both on their sides, 69-style. Who in the hell are they?
Distracted by sleeping porno, my foot gets caught on a leather G-string. I try to untangle myself but instead fall forward and land on a woman I’ve never met before.
Great.
“Shit, sorry, darlin’.”
She only moans as my weight crushes her and then moves to her back when I get up. Her exposed breasts fall to either side of her waist, and her red nipple tassels dangle at her side.
I get a quick whiff of her, and she smells like cherry and tequila—fuck. Tequila!
Tequila is obviously responsible for all of this.
I look around me, upturning everything in my way, hoping not to confirm my suspicions—that I drank tequila. The one thing Norbert specifically said not to do.
