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I shift in my seat and avoid going back to my emails. I’m tired and it’s late.
I make a mental note to text James tomorrow, not that he’ll reply, but it’s worth a shot. He tends to carry things on for a while, until he runs out of money and needs a cash injection.
But I’m interested to see what he has to say about Ariana, and if he’ll tell me what happened. If I run into her again, then maybe I’ll ask her myself.
I pick up the telephone and dial room service. I’m too tired to dine out tonight.
A steak and a bottle of red should do it, and I’ll indulge in front of the television. Another rarity for me, because I don’t watch anything unless it’s the Sopranos or the news.
Tomorrow will be better.
I always sleep much better when I’m in someone else’s bed, as fucked up as it sounds. I like the unknown, the unexpected. It keeps me on my toes.
I may not look my age, but I certainly feel like it.
I close my laptop and pad through the enormous suite and into the shower.
The Penthouse is lavish, too big for just me, but I don’t mind over-indulgence. I deserve it.
I must send Emily an email, and maybe something nice like her favorite chocolates for organizing this at such short notice. I literally left work yesterday and told her to book me a trip before I end up in jail. I know I pay her handsomely, but still, I like to keep the good staff around, and she’s worth her weight in gold.
Then there’s my lawyer… thank God for people in low places, that’s all I can say.
I’ll deal with Henry later.
If I can get through the next few days without killing someone, then it’ll be some kind of miracle.
Chapter Five
Ariana
I blame my friends. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t have a thumping headache, and I also wouldn’t have the mariachi band playing in the back of my head, or the front, for that matter.
Realistically, I know I’m in control of my own stupidity. To get shitfaced on the first night was probably not a great idea since you always pay for it the next day, ending up in recovery mode, like the one currently in progress.
No amount of greasy food or hot coffee can dispel the aftermath of too much tequila, and my friends don’t help matters.
I don’t know what it is about Australians, but Charlize looks and acts like she never even had a sip of liquor, much less drank more than me and Imogen put together.
While I drag myself to the bathroom, she’s outside on the balcony, plotting our day. All I really want to do is lie by the pool and try to somehow crawl my way out of my Mexicoma.
“Don’t be too long in the shower,” she yells out at me as I pass a sleeping Imogen, still curled up and out of it on the roller bed. “We’ve got a buffet breakfast in ten minutes, and I’m not missing out on pancakes for all the tea in China!”
“Nobody drinks tea,” I yell back. “You’ve been saying that stupid quote since I met you ten years ago. It’s time for a new line.”
“Ooh, who’s a cranky pants?” she yells back as I slam the door closed. I chug down a glass of water and two Tylenol that my annoying best friend left on the counter for me.
She is annoyingly thoughtful.
But I’m seriously never drinking again.
It all started when I decided to check Facebook and saw dickhead James is now not only shacked up with that two-faced bimbo that he cheated on me with, but they’re going away on vacation together for his birthday.Our birthday weekend.
They display everything on social media. I shouldn’t be surprised, even if most of it is on her page, where she documents absolutely everything.
What’s worse is some of our mutual friends were commenting on how sweet they looked together.
Pass me a bucket. I feel like commenting that they deserve each other, but I somehow manage to stop myself. It’ll only seem like I’m bitter, which I undoubtedly am.In fact, I think it’s time I unfriended him. I don’t need those memories.
