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“This is—this is my private room!” God, she’s shrill when she’s embarrassed. I wince, rubbing at my temples, my head pounding in time with my heartbeat, and she keeps going, getting louder with every word. “What I bring in my suitcase is none of your concern, Mr Coltrane. And what I do in my spare time, when I’m off the clock—you can’t—it’s not—”
I hold up a palm, warding her off, and my voice is so quiet compared to hers. Hushed and hollow. “Let’s never discuss it.”
An angry gust of breath. “Fine.”
So inappropriate. So many lines crossed. I’ve been careful for so long, and for what?
The suitcase smacks shut again, the sound echoing around the ruined suite, and I still have so many questions about last night. Like: does Effie remember what happened? Did wedoanything together? What the hell is with the feathers?
And why do I feel like I went ten rounds in a boxing ring? I rub at my jaw, wincing at what feels like a bruise.
But Effie’s marching toward the bathroom, wobbly but determined, gripping a wash bag tightly against her ribs. And lord knows I’d let her go, I’d try to make my own escape too, except something glints against her slender finger and suddenly I can’t breathe.
“Effie.” She doesn’t slow, jerking her head back and forth. Her dark hair quivers, a feather fluttering to the carpet in her wake. “Effie.”
I lurch to my feet, securing my towel at the last second, and lunge across the room to meet her by the bathroom. My assistant backs up against the door frame, blinking up at me in alarm, but she doesn’t yell out. Her head tips back and her pale lips part, her toffee eyes holding mine. Her breath stutters as I step into her personal alcohol cloud.
I recognize these fumes. I woke up in a mist of them, too.
Effie surrenders the wash bag easily, not even trying to keep hold. And when I lift her hand between us, she doesn’t fight that either. She frowns down at her fingers where they’re held in mine, a diamond sparkling against her olive skin.
“Were you wearing this yesterday?” I croak, my thumb rubbing at her knuckle like a worry bead. I shouldn’t touch her like this, but I shouldn’t be here in only a towel, either. I shouldn’t be hungover in front of her. I shouldn’t have forgotten the whole fucking night.
Effie shakes her head, visibly shocked. Still staring at her finger. “I don’t understand.”
I do. God help me, I do.
“Effie.” I grip her fingers tight, the room spinning around us. “Listen to me. That’s a wedding ring.”
* * *
A business trip to Vegas. ToVegas, with my maddening assistant, the girl who haunts my every waking hour. Who I constantly want to both strangle and bend over the conference table. How did I ever think this was a good idea?
The faint sounds of her vomiting float through the wall. That makes two of us, then.
Fuck. How did this happen?
My head throbs as I rap on the bathroom door for the fifth time, my stomach having settled somewhere near my ankles. I’m dressed now, at least, in dark jeans and a white t-shirt—lifesaving clothes I fetched from my own room down the hall. The room I should have slept in last night. Alone.
“Effie. Let me in.” I can’t hold her hair back from out here, can I?
She hurls loudly into the toilet bowl. Guess that’s a no.
It makes no sense. I don’tdothis, I never get blackout drunk, and this suite looks like a bomb hit. We must have been truly wild, and it’s so out of character I keep looking around for a hidden camera. For signs of a prank.
Because when I strain to remember last night, there are no answers. Only flashes, playing in my aching mind like snippets of film reel.
Effie dancing on a table above me in a dark club, her eyes closed and hips swaying.
Drinks raised around a table to a chorus of cheers.
My feet slapping on the sidewalk as I run, the city lights shining all around and my assistant whooping on my back.
And Elvis. Fucking Elvis.
My forehead thumps against the bathroom door. “We missed our flight,” I call through the wood. My assistant retches in response. “I’ve rescheduled for tomorrow and paid for another night in our rooms. So we have less than twenty four hours to…”
To figure out what the hell happened.
