7. Chapter 7
Grayson
“Holy fuck, shut it off.”
Harlow’s voice pierces my head. “Shut what off?” I rasp out.
“The sun, I think. It’s so bright. My head.”
I shush him. “You’re not the only one with a head. Be quiet.”
God, how fucking much did we drink last night? Too much. I remember the hot dogs and walking around The Strip. Finding the bar that Harlow wanted to go to with the guitar beers. Drinking one, then more, and then… nothing.
“What the fuck did we do last night?” I ask, groaning at the way my own voice makes my head spin.
Fuck, I haven’t been this hungover since I was a teenager. This is why I don’t drink. It’s never as fun the next day as it is the night of. I can’t even recall the last time I drank so much I didn’t remember most of the night.
Harlow is somewhere in the bed with me, but he’s blessedly quiet. “Where are you?” I whisper. “Why aren’t you talking?”
“You told me to be quiet,” he whispers back.
And when has he ever listened to anything in his entire life? “I’m never drinking again.”
“I think everyone says that.”
I shift on the bed, patting around until I find Harlow. “I might throw up if you touch me,” he groans.
That’s a good point. In fact, I should be more still too. “Again, I ask, what did we do last night?”
“We drank a lot of guitar beers.” My stomach lurches, and he groans again. “Nope. Can’t talk about beer.”
I think I’d probably laugh if I wasn’t so fucking miserable. Slowly, I peel my eyes open, blinking against how fucking bright the sun is. Harlow wasn’t kidding. Someone needs to turn it off.
Harlow’s lying on his back with his hands folded over his stomach and a grimace on his face that I’m sure is echoed on my own.
“And then?” I ask. “After the guitar beers?”
He starts to shake his head, then stops quickly. “No clue. My mouth tastes like something died in there.”
“Mine too.”
“Do you think we ate something dead?”
That makes my stomach roll again. “Ugh. Shut up. Don’t say that.”
“Well, you don’t know. We could’ve. Could be what happened that we don’t remember.”
I hold a hand up in the air. “Please. I’m begging.”
“Alright.” He sighs. “I’ll shut up, but only because I’m grossing myself out too.”
I don’t even know what time it is. How the fuck did we even get back to the hotel? All questions I don’t know the answer to.
“Fuck, I need to brush my teeth.” Harlow rolls off the bed, and I glance at him as his feet hit the floor, and he steadies himself with a hand on the bed.
God, how is one person so fucking gorgeous?
His hair is a wreck, even more so than usual, and his eyes—even bleary—are such a perfect crystal blue.
Spending an entire week with him might actually kill me.
It’s already hard as hell being around him on a normal day, but with him looking like this?
Torture. How the fuck am I supposed to resist him?
It’s bad enough that I kissed the top of his head while we were eating yesterday.
And nope, I can’t think about those hot dogs. They’re probably long digested by now, but I don’t want to find out.
“What’s that shirt?” I ask, pointing at him.
He looks down at himself, confusion spreading across his face. “I have no idea.” He looks back up at me. “You have one too.”
He giggles as I lift the blanket a little and look down.
“We’re wearing matching tux shirts,” I say, staring at myself in disbelief.
Harlow giggles again. “Are you wearing pants?”
What in the fuck kind of question is that? “Yes.” At least I think so. I pat my thighs, relieved to find sweats covering my legs. “Yes.”
“I’m not.”
My eyes fly up on instinct, which, Jesus fuck, is not a good look. Not that it matters anyway. Harlow’s shirt is comically large and covers everything to mid-thigh.
I avert my gaze quickly, and Harlow disappears into the bathroom. Closing my eyes, I try to breathe through the nausea. The water turns on, and I listen as Harlow hums while he brushes his teeth. I have no idea how he’s humming right now.
It always was unfair how quickly he seemed to bounce back after a night of drinking.
I’m still trying to calm my stomach when the water shuts off and Harlow walks back into the room. “You should brush your teeth. It’ll make you feel better.”
He’s probably right, so I throw the blankets off myself and sit up carefully. When my stomach doesn’t instantly revolt, I climb out of bed and make my way into the bathroom.
“You know the best thing for a hangover?” Harlow calls out as I flip the toilet lid up so I can pee.
I know what he’s going to say before I ask, but I do anyway. “What?”
“A big greasy breakfast. I’ll order food.”
I flush the toilet and wash my hands before picking up my toothbrush. I glare at it for a second. My gag reflex is probably on a hair trigger today, and if this stupid toothbrush is the thing to make me throw up, I’m going to lose it.
“Both our phones are dead,” Harlow says, suddenly standing in the doorway. “I plugged them in. We’ll have to order food in a minute.”
I spit out my toothpaste, then rinse my mouth before shutting the water off. Harlow was right. Brushing my teeth did help. At least my mouth and some of the nausea. I still could use some pain relievers and water, though.
“Sounds good. Do we have anything for my head?”
Darting to his suitcase, he opens the front zipper and pulls out a bottle of ibuprofen. I always want to kiss Harlow. Always. But right now? I could actually fucking kiss him, and it has nothing to do with his full, pouty lips or his adorable freckles.
He hands me the bottle, and I open the cap and shake a couple into my palm before grabbing a bottle of water off the table and taking them. I’m working on drinking the water when Harlow gasps.
“Holy shit. I have, like, a million notifications.”
“From who?”
He scrolls, his thumb moving lightning quick, his eyes wide. God, he’s still in that fucking shirt, and it’s doing stupid things to my head.
“Everyone. My mom. Your mom. Josh.”
“What the fuck?” I move closer, looking over his shoulder. “Why?”
“Oh fuck.”
“What?”
He taps on a notification from Instagram with a shaking thumb, and we’re met with a video of the two of us.
It’s almost impossible to tell what we’re doing because it’s so blurry and out of focus, but the caption says #thehubs and literally nothing else.
It was posted eight hours ago and has hundreds of likes.
My heart takes off at a gallop. “What the fuck does that mean?” I ask, my face going numb.
He hits play, and I nearly stop breathing. It would be impossible to breathe with what I’m looking at—the two of us standing in the street in front of a building with a steeple.
We didn’t get married. There’s no fucking way we got married. I bite the inside of my cheek as I watch the video.
It looks like Harlow is holding the phone, recording us, and the video shakes for a second before he steadies it. “We just got married.”
He waves his hand in front of the camera, and even though he’s not wearing a ring in the video, I glance down at his finger anyway, just to be sure.
Darting my gaze back to the phone, I watch in horror as Harlow grips my shirt—my stupid fucking tux shirt—and drags me to him, slamming his mouth down on mine.
My heart thumps, and my stomach flips so hard I’m sure I’m going to throw up. From watching us kiss or from the alcohol, it remains to be seen.
Harlow pulls back slightly, then flicks his tongue against my lower lip before diving back in with a hungry moan that makes my cock swell to life.
I’ve known Harlow my entire life, and I’ve never once heard him make that sound.
The kiss seems to go on forever, with me tangling my fingers in Harlow’s hair and pulling him closer, and him nibbling on my lower lip and sinking his tongue into my mouth as I tug on the strands of his wild hair.
The video cuts off before the kiss does, and my fingers go numb as it starts playing again. That’s not real, right? It can’t be. There’s no way we got married. This has to be fake.
Harlow’s filthy moan echoes through the room, and my cock jerks against my sweats.
There’s absolutely no fucking way I finally got to kiss Harlow, and I don’t even remember it.