Chapter 9 Face Down, Ghost White Ass Up
FACE DOWN, GHOST WHITE ASS UP
MABEL
Oh my god, turn it down.
My neighbors next door must be having early morning drum lessons or taking an in-home class on classic marching band music, because the thudding booms and bangs are fighting right through the soundproof walls of my condo and ricocheting through my brain.
My brain, which seems to be trying to donkey-kick its way out of my head based on the way it’s pounding in my skull.
I swear once I come to life, I’m selling this condo and moving to a cabin in the woods where there are no neighbors for miles. I’d rather take my chances with a serial killer than whatever the hell this is.
I try to lift my hand to knock on the wall and beg them to cut it out, but both of my arms are tucked directly under my chest, numb from lack of blood flow.
When I open my mouth to yell, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and I feel the corners of my lips crack.
Oh god, dry. So dry. I need water, now. The second the thought crosses my mind, my gag reflex revolts at the idea of swallowing, and I heave into my pillow.
Except…
This pillowcase is cotton. It smells like generic detergent, and it’s smushed flat to the bed where my face is resting on it.
This is not my pillow. My pillow is memory foam and smells like lavender.
My pillowcase is made of silk to keep my hair frizz-free and my skin fresh from oils.
And the blanket lying on top of me isn’t mine, either.
It’s scratchy and not nearly warm enough—or maybe it’s just that I’m buck naked underneath it, if the way my nipples are chafing against the low-thread count sheets is any indication.
I crack my eye open, wincing at the sliver of light peeking through the heavy curtain, and I remember where I am.
I’m in Las Vegas, and that sound is not my neighbors having a breakfast rock and roll party. It’s the sound of tequila and bad decisions working its way out of my system via the worst headache I’ve ever experienced in my life.
“Mabel Scout Quinn, open this door right now or so help me god, I will kick it down myself.”
Or maybe it’s the sound of my publicist coming to kill me.
Either way, death feels like a welcome friend at the moment.
The groan that escapes my lips as I lift my head off the pillow is completely involuntary and instigates an immediate coughing fit, thanks to the desert-dry state of my mouth.
I try to push my hair out of my face, but my fingers get immediately tangled in a rat's nest hanging in front of my eyes.
I try to detangle myself, but wind up pulling a whole mess of hair off my head and flinging it onto the floor.
Oh my god, I drank so much that my hair gave up on me.
Holy shit, am I bald now?
I pat my head, wincing at the contact but relieved when I feel hair still growing from my scalp. I squint towards the ground, and even though it’s still dark in here, I notice the pile of hair on the floor isn’t red, but blonde.
Right, the wigs. I passed out with that stupid blonde wig still on my head. I can still see, which means I must have at least taken the contacts out at some point.
A win is a win, I guess.
“Mabel, I swear to Christ, if you don’t open this door right this instant!” Trina’s voice is accompanied by a trio of loud bangs, and my brain thuds in my skull.
Knowing that if I don’t open the door, Trina will gather the satanic strength only accessible by high-powered publicists and kick the door down without scuffing her six-inch red-bottom heels, I pull the blanket around my bare body and shuffle towards the opposite side of the room.
Every step feels like running a marathon, and when I crack the door open, the light from the hotel hallway beaming my cornea nearly makes me fall backwards.
Trina doesn’t say a word as she shoulders past me into the room, flipping light switches as she goes.
I’m not surprised to see my mom following behind her—if Trina is here to scold my hungover ass first thing in the morning, I must have been photographed doing something dumb last night—but the sight of Ramona is a bit alarming.
While Ramona and Robert have always been like a second pair of parents to me, they aren’t usually around when I’m being disciplined.
But there she is, the tight, disappointed expression on her face matching Trina and my mother’s.
I keep my eyes trained to the floor as the door clicks shut behind me, both because I’m ashamed to look up and face the adults in the room, and because Trina has turned on every single light and I think I might vomit from sheer brightness alone.
But between my hangover and the state of the carpet—my discarded dress left in a pile, the knotted wig, the empty champagne bottles and crumpled up piece of paper poking out of the top of my left shoe—I know I have massively fucked up.
“Well,” Trina says, her stern voice breaking the heavy silence. “If it isn’t the newlyweds.”
Newlyweds? Did I go to a wedding last night? Who got married?
My gaze snaps up so fast that the movement makes me nauseous and I have to steady myself with a hand on the wall.
I swallow back the rising bile and see Trina with her hands on her hips, leaning against the wooden table covered in candy wrappers and tiny liquor bottles and…
a bouquet of white lilies. I crinkle my brow, and the faintest memory flits through my head, so distant, it might as well have been a dream.
“No roses. My future wife hates roses. She loves lilies. Lilies only for my beautiful bride.”
“Oh no,” I whisper, my fingers coming up to meet my lips.
A booming snore echoes through the room, and I look towards the noise to find the memory wasn’t a dream.
It was a goddamn nightmare.
There, wearing just his birthday suit in the middle of the king-sized mattress I emerged from a moment ago with his face down and ghost-white ass up, is Ryder.
“Bet you wish you knew that your husband snored before you said ‘I do’, huh, Mabes?” Mom says, and reality comes crashing down around me.
The contents of my stomach demand exit, and I rush into the bathroom, just barely making it to the toilet before I’m doing my best impression of that chick from The Exorcist. I heave over the lid, hoping that with each expulsion of sickness, I might somehow rid myself of the truth and the consequences of my actions, but it’s no use.
It’s like each wave of nausea is followed up by a little more sobriety, and more of last night comes into view.
The shots we took with Kitty and Lola.
The burlesque show and all the slinky, seductive women on the stage determined to turn me on beyond rational thinking.
The dancer who dared Ryder and I to make out and the way we happily obliged.
The sloppy kisses we shared when that first one wasn’t enough, shoving each other against walls in our attempts to get closer.
The look of conspiratorial glee on Ryder’s face when we stumbled upon the 24/7 wedding chapel.
And the lilies.
The lilies that, even in my drunken state, turned my heart into goo.
Most days, I find it impossible to keep my eyes off of you.
Someone comes up behind me and pulls my knotted hair out of my face, and I’m momentarily relieved until I hear his voice.
My husband’s voice.
“Shh, it’s okay, baby girl. It’s okay.”
Ryder’s soothing tone has my gut churning again, and he smoothes a hand over the blanket covering my back while I vomit.
I’m too hungover to fight my body’s instinct to lean back into him, nor do I have the energy to swat his hand away when he wipes the corners of my mouth with a wad of tissues.
I notice that he’s no longer naked but is wearing an oversized ‘Welcome To Las Vegas’ t-shirt that smells like burnt plastic like a dress.
My stomach is empty, but that doesn’t stop me from gagging when I realize I’m still not wearing any clothes under my blanket.
I twist so I can face Ryder, and even though this position feels almost like he is cradling me like a baby…
or a new bride…I’m too hungover to give a shit.
“Oh god. We really fucked up.”
“I know, Mabel. We’re gonna fix it, don’t worry.”
“Do you remember anything from last night?”
He tilts his head, his bloodshot eyes roaming all over my face.
“Bits and pieces, yeah. It’s all really messy though. Pretty much everything after we met Kitty and Lola is a blur.”
“Did we…” I trail off, swallowing back the rest of my question, but Ryder doesn’t need the words to know what I was asking.
“No, we didn’t have sex.”
“How do you know? I’m naked under here, and you were sleeping naked, too. And I think we made out last night. Like, a lot.”
The remnants of my red lipstick smeared around his mouth are proof of that.
“Trust me, Mabel. We didn’t have sex. It doesn't matter how drunk I was, consent is important to me. Kissing is one thing, but we most definitely did not have sex. We got back here, you ripped your clothes off like The Hulk and fell into bed. You were passed out before you hit the mattress and I threw the blanket over you so you wouldn’t freeze to death.
I don’t remember, but I guess I got undressed at some point, too.
I, uh, sleep naked at home, so I probably tore my own clothes off in my sleep. ”
His cheeks flush, and he runs a hand over the back of his neck while I close my eyes and take an internal survey of my body. I don’t feel like I had sex last night, and given the amount of alcohol in our systems, I don’t think it would have been physically possible for us to get it on.
Since Ryder seems to be in a slightly better state than me and presumably remembers our night better than I do, I’m going to choose to believe him when he says we didn’t try to consummate our marriage.
Marriage.
I heave again, and instead of pointing me towards the toilet, Ryder pulls me into his chest. It might be the camaraderie we built last night or the way his warm skin feels against my clammy head but either way, I shove aside my usual disdain and happily lean into the snuggle.
“What are we going to do, Ryder?”
“We’re going to go out there and let our moms and Trina yell at us. Then, we’re going to get some Bloody Marys to-go for our hangovers, and we’re going to get the marriage annulled.”
The mention of a Bloody Mary makes my stomach churn, but even I know that a little hair of the dog is the only cure to the disaster zone my organs have turned into.
“Right. Yes. Yelling, Bloody Mary, annulment. Smart.”
“You have to be done puking by now, Mabel. Get. Out. Here.” Trina punctuates her words with smacks of her palm against the bathroom door, and Ryder and I sheepishly get to our feet. He turns to give me privacy while I slip into a robe, leaving the blanket pooled on the bathroom floor.
“Ready?” I ask when the robe is belted around my waist, and Ryder turns, extending his arm towards me.
“Hold my hand?”
I press my lips together, and then lay my hand in his, the two of us presenting a united front as we head out to face the consequences of our actions.