Hudson
It was almost 11:00 AM when I cracked open one eye and immediately regretted it. The sun had barged in through the windows like it paid rent, slicing across the bedsheets in those judgmental, golden rays that screamed, “You’re too old for this shit.”
I groaned and rolled over, face smashing into the pillow. The sheets smelled like tequila, sweat, and something vaguely floral—which could’ve been the trick’s cologne or the scented candle I accidentally knocked over mid-thrust. Who’s to say?
Speaking of the trick, he was gone. No dramatic goodbye, no crumpled napkin with a fake number, not even a passive-aggressive note scrawled in eyeliner on my mirror. Just the faint indent of a body in my sheets and one of my beach towels crumpled on the floor like a flag of conquest.
Classy.
But hey, the sex was good, and he didn’t try to cuddle after, which, honestly, makes him husband material in my book.
I stretched, bones popping like bubble wrap, and reached for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up like a slot machine: 48 unread texts, 11 missed calls, and a flood of DMs that could fill the Atlantic.
One message read:
You going to be at Nolan’s pool party today? Bring extra tequila and shenanigans.
Another:
Brunch at Somewhere? Wear something that says, “I’m emotionally available but still a slut.”
Well, no problem there.
And one from a guy whose name I couldn’t remember but whose abs I definitely did:
Saw you at Aqua last night. Still thinking about those jeans. Hit me up if you’re free ;).
Charming. And terrifying. My liver whimpered just looking at those invites.
I sat up, head pounding like there was a tiny drag queen doing a death drop behind my eyes. My tongue felt like I’d licked the inside of a beach umbrella. Hydration was the goal, and survival was the vibe.
Dragging myself to the mirror, I examined the damage. Bloodshot eyes, a scruffier-than-usual beard, hair doing its best impression of a hedge after a fucking hurricane. Still hot, obviously, just… haunted.
I needed sun. I needed the ocean. I needed to bake out this hangover like a rotisserie chicken.
I pulled on a pair of sexy swim trunks—tight, black, slightly shiny. Something that screamed, “I vacation on yachts I don’t own.”
Although, technically, I probably could buy one.
I threw on a loose white tank top with a stretched-out collar that exposed just the right amount of collarbone, slapped on a baseball cap (backward, obviously), and slid on my darkest aviators.
Sunscreen. Essential. Not because I cared about skin cancer at the moment, but because I refused to let the sun add premature wrinkles to this moneymaker.
With a half-full bottle of coconut water in one hand and my towel in the other, I kicked open the sliding glass door, letting the hot morning air smack me in the face. The sand was already heating up, the ocean glimmering with that irresistible siren-call shimmer.
Rehoboth Beach really was beautiful. And full of drama. Just like me.
“Let’s do this,”
I muttered, stepping barefoot into the sand. Hungover. Horny. And ready for absolutely nothing.
The sand was hot enough to fry an egg—or at least make my hangover feel like it had crawled down onto my feet. I trudged across it with my towel slung over one shoulder, my sunglasses shielding me from both the sun and the consequences of last night. I looked like a walking hangover commercial for bad decisions and coconut-scented regret.
About ten paces down, I spotted the chair-and-umbrella rental guy—tan, shirtless, and jacked in a way that made me think he definitely skipped leg day but got an A+ in thirst traps. I gave him a once-over, then another for good measure.
“Hey, man,”
I called, waving a lazy hand.
“Set me up somewhere great. I want shade, a breeze, and at least a ten-foot radius from screaming toddlers and people doing CrossFit on the sand.”
He smirked, chewing gum like it was a full-time job. His board shorts were clinging in ways that made me reconsider my life goals.
“You got it, man,”
he said, grabbing an umbrella, a chair, and some serious attention from my sunglasses.
“You want the padded lounger or the regular?”
“Dude, does this seriously look like an ass that lounges on regular?”
I flashed a wink and pulled a fifty-dollar bill from my tote, slipping it into the waistband of his shorts like I was tipping a go-go boy at a Palm Springs pool party.
He raised his eyebrows but didn’t protest.
“You’re that guy from the movies, right?”
“Guilty.”
He led me toward a prime spot not far from the water—close enough to hear the waves but far enough that I wouldn’t get sprayed by children building sandcastles like they were in The Great British Sand-Off. He planted the umbrella, laid the chair, and gave me a cheeky little salute.
I settled in, towel draped across the lounger, tank top tossed to the side, legs outstretched like I was sunbathing for GQ: Degenerate Edition. The breeze was divine. The sun was aggressive, but in that cute “I’m here to fix you”
kind of way. I took a sip of my coconut water and sighed dramatically.
And, of course—because the world can’t give me more than ten minutes of peace—two guys approached from stage left. Mid-thirties, fit, beach-kissed hair, and faces that screamed brunches hard.
“Oh my god, it’s really you,”
one of them said, already beaming like I was the second coming of Cher.
“ Knight, right? We love your movies.”
I put on my best humble-smug face.
“I mean, who doesn’t love watching me almost die dramatically while shirtless?”
“That scene in Rogue Tide where you fight the guy with the harpoon? Amazing!”
the other chimed in.
“Honestly,”
the first said, placing a hand on his heart.
“You got me through my breakup. I must’ve watched Aftershock a hundred times. You cry so well.”
“That’s just allergies and method acting,”
I deadpanned.
“But thank you. Seriously.”
They asked for a selfie, which I obliged—one arm around each of them, smiling like I wasn’t dying inside from dehydration and the faint scent of tequila still radiating from my pores.
“You staying in around long?”
one asked as they checked their photo.
“For now,”
I said, already inching toward the escape route that was the ocean.
“But I’m currently on a strict hangover rehab schedule. Sun. Silence. Possibly a Bloody Mary in an hour.”
“Oh! We won’t bother you then. But thank you so much for the picture. Appreciate it!”
They laughed, waved, and trotted off, leaving a faint trail of SPF and admiration behind them.
I peeled myself from the lounger and headed toward the water. The sand scorched my feet, but the ocean—oh, the ocean—wrapped around my ankles like a cold ex-boyfriend begging for another chance. I waded in deeper, letting the salt sting away the sins of the night before.
And for a moment, with the waves lapping at my waist and the sun kissing the back of my neck, I almost felt wholesome.
Almost.
Then I remembered I had tequila in my fridge and a party invite in my DMs titled “Speedos and Spritzers,”
and the feeling passed.
The ocean was lapping at my calves, cool and forgiving, when it happened. One moment, I was casually emerging from the Atlantic like a hungover sea god, waves rolling off my hips, my skin glistening in the sunlight like a greased-up Greek statue. The next, I was airborne.
Well, not airborne exactly—but there was definitely a hop, a flail, and a scream.
“MOTHER FUCKER!” I howled.
A jolt of pain shot up my leg like I’d been tasered by Poseidon himself. My foot came down on something jagged—something evil—something shaped like Satan’s toenail.
Shell. Sharp. Wet. And now embedded in the bottom of my foot like some kind of beachside booby trap.
I crumpled to the wet sand with all the grace of a three-legged baby deer. My sunglasses tilted sideways, like they were trying to escape the scene.
Blood. BLOOD. So much blood.
I stared at the gash on the arch of my foot, crimson pooling around it like it was auditioning for a Tarantino movie.
And of course—because this is my life—the entire beach was now watching. Silence fell over the section of shore around me like someone had hit mute on a gay beach musical.
A kid with a snow cone dropped it in horror.
Someone gasped. Someone else shouted, “Is that Knight?!”
“Oh great,”
I muttered, collapsing fully onto my side, holding my injured foot like a Victorian heroine with consumption.
“Now I’ve done it.”
A man jogged over, shirtless and alarmingly tan, like a sentient bottle of tanning oil.
“Dude, you okay?”
“Does it look like I’m okay?!”
I barked, gesturing to my very dramatic, very bloody foot.
“I’ve been shanked by a goddamn seashell! This is how I die. On vacation. Alone. Bleeding out next to a melted snow cone.”
“You should rinse it off,”
he offered, because people always say the most obvious things when blood is involved.
“Oh wow, really? Should I also try breathing? Maybe blink a few times while I’m fucking at it?”
Another voice chimed in, this one nasal and unhelpful.
“Somebody call the lifeguard!”
“No lifeguards,”
I moaned.
“I’m not being carted off the beach like a fucking wounded pelican.”
I sat up, foot still throbbing, blood dripping onto the sand like a Jackson Pollock painting no one asked for. I used my forearm to wipe the sweat—and possibly tears—from my forehead.
“Okay,”
I breathed, trying to regain what little composure I had left.
I muttered to myself, trying to stay composed.
“I need bandages. I need Neosporin. I need a damn martini.”