CHAPTER 18
Declan
I’ve tried to wake up a dozen times, but my mouth pounds and my eyeballs are fuzzy. Scratch that. Reverse it.
My mouth is fuzzy, and my eyeballs pound. That’s right. And it’s pretty awful.
Actually, everything above the neck pounds, and my gut is threatening to rebel.
I have no idea how much I drank last night, but I think I reached the too-much stage about ten drinks before I managed to stop.
If I move, I worry my head will actually separate from my neck and roll across the floor and then I’m going to have real problems. If I move, my stomach will win the battle it’s waging against me.
So, I’m careful not to move, but now I’m awake. As gently and slowly as I can, I open one eyelid, but just halfway. A hotel suite comes into view, lit up by sunlight blasting through the open curtains.
“I hate sunshine,” I try to say, but my throat is too dry and the words come out strangled and hoarse. I need water and ibuprofen. I need my stomach pumped. Or maybe a time machine to go back and tell myself not to drink like an idiot teenager.
I moan in agony and shut my eye again.
That’s much better, but I still need water. The alcohol has sucked all the moisture out of my body like a Shop-Vac. The roof of my mouth feels like sandpaper.
“Shut up. I’m trying to sleep.”
The voice comes from behind me. I’d know that voice anywhere. It’s Summer.
Oh, that’s right. She was also drinking last night. We were drinking together.
And we had such a great time! Until something happened. What was it that happened?
Oh no.
Did I kiss her? How could I do that to her? I crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed. She’s going to hate me forever. I’m surprised she didn’t stab me while I was sleeping.
Turning my face into the pillow, I moan again.
“I’m trying to sleep!”
I think Summer intended to yell her complaint, but it came out as a croak. Oh, that’s right. She got completely falling-down sloshed last night. It’s a good thing I was there to keep her from doing anything stupid.
“What the hell, MacLaine?” she squeaks.
The mattress bounces up and down, which is not good for the gut.
Hold up.
She’s in my bed?
“Why am I naked?” she asks.
“What the fuck?” I bolt upright, blankets flying.
Ignoring the stabbing pain in my head, I see Summer clutching the duvet to her chest. She’s covering herself, but I still see the elegant curve of her back and the top of her ass and thighs. She’s right. She’s naked.
She’s beautiful.
Keeping one hand clutched to the duvet, she cups the other over her eyes. “Declan! Put something on. Look at yourself, dude!”
I look down. I’m naked, too. I pull some of the duvet to cover my important bits. “What the fuck, Summer? Why am I naked? Why are you naked? Why are you in my bed?”
She’s still covering her eyes. “Please stop yelling. Your voice is cracking my skull like an egg.”
“You can open your eyes. I’m covered.”
She opens her eyes.
Then, she slowly turns. She looks at me.
And I look at her.
We stay like this for a long time.
A really long time.
“I don’t know,” she finally says, blinking.
“What don’t you know?”
“What we did. That’s what you’re wondering, right?
What we did with each other last night that led to us waking up in bed together.
Naked. Because let me tell you, Declan, you got absolutely hammered last night.
You’re never been a good drinker. Always a lightweight. But I’ve never seen you that blotto.”
“I’m an excellent drinker. The best,” I tell her. “But you? I think…” I’m remembering something. “I’m pretty sure that you kept showing me your boobs.”
She lets go with a strangled laugh. “You wish.”
“No, you whipped out your boobs in public. A few times.”
She belches.
“Turn your head, Summer. I’m getting up and going to the bathroom.”
“Are you going to throw up?”
“Turn your head.”
“Why bother? I’ve already seen it.”
“Turn your head anyway, just to humor me.”
She turns her head, and I lurch for the bathroom. While I stand and piss out a night’s worth of alcohol, I try to figure out what to do next. What to do about Summer.
After I flush, I wash my hands, throw cold water on my face, and slam two glasses of tap water. Turning off the faucet, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes. Swollen lips. Unshaven. Pale skin with a green tint.
I look like I’ve been rode hard and put away wet.
“And you probably were, you fucking bastard,” I tell my reflection. “What did you do to her? You had drunken sex with your best friend. You used the sweetest woman on the planet for your own pleasure, you low-life shitweasel!”
“Who’re you calling a shitweasel?” Summer calls from the other room, startling me.
I was hoping this is nothing but a hallucination, that none of this is real.
But now that I know she’s really out there, naked and in my bed, I’m tempted to hide in the bathroom for the rest of the day.
Eventually, she’ll get bored, and she’ll leave.
But I don’t want her to leave. I don’t want it to be a hallucination.
“Man up, dickhead,” I whisper to my reflection. I grab a towel, knot it around my hips, and pour a third glass of water, this one for Summer. I suck in a huge gulp of air before opening the door.
Summer’s on the edge of the bed, wrapped in the duvet and blinking against the bright morning light. Her hair is messy and uneven. So fucking sexy.
You shitweasel wankhammer.
“I don’t know where my clothes are,” she says. “This is going to sound strange, but I have this foggy memory of Beyoncé taking off my clothes. Maybe not. But I’m naked and I’m pretty sure Beyoncé was involved somehow.”
“Beyoncé?” I stick the glass of water in front of her, but I feel a memory clicking into place in my brain. “Here.”
“Thanks.” She drains the whole thing and burps again, setting the glass on the bedside table.
Bed. Side. Bedside.
My bed. Beside me. In bed.
Yeah, I’ve fucked this shit up but good.
Summer shrugs and stands, careful to pull the duvet around her shapely bottom. “I’m going to take a shower. I ordered room service for both of us, so if it gets here before I’m done, do not eat my bacon. If you even think about touching my bacon, you’ll live to regret it.”
That was a completely normal thing for her to say. Summer doesn’t seem freaked out at all. She’s not talking about it, but she’s not freaking out about it, either.
Shouldn’t she be? What the hell’s the matter with her? I’m certainly freaking the fuck out. And I don’t want to freak the fuck out by myself!
“Do you have any aspirin?” she asks, walking barefoot into the huge marble bathroom.
“I’ll order some.”
“Good. All the aspirin in Las Vegas might be enough.” She’s about to close the bathroom door, but she stops and stares at her feet. I wait for her to say something, but she just stands there.
“I’m sorry, Summer,” I tell her.
“We don’t know what happened.” She speaks without turning to face me. “Nothing to be sorry for—not yet, anyway.”