The Morning After

Las Vegas

CHARLEE

Why is my bra hanging off the lamp?

I stare at the lacy red garment in disbelief. That is not the lamp from my hotel room, which means I’m in some rando’s bed. A quick peek under the covers confirms that I am, in fact, naked as the day I was born. Also, a freakishly large hand is covering my right breast.

Why is a stranger pawing my boob?

I wiggle away from the offending hand as I try recalling the events from last night. Despite my best efforts, the only thing my brain will produce is a blur of shots lining a bar and...Lady Gaga? Goddamn, how much did I drink? My head feels like all seven dwarfs are tunneling through my skull. And my mouth tastes like ass. Not that I’ve ever tasted ass, but you know what I mean. Nausea rolls through me as I gather the courage to roll over and see what I’m dealing with here.

Oh.

Okay, ignoring the fact that I had sex with a complete stranger, maybe it’s not so bad. The mystery man’s face is buried beneath a fluffy white pillow but the parts that I can see are quite nice. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy with so little body fat in real life—his biceps are probably bigger than my freaking head. As I take in the thick tribal tattoo winding around his upper arm, I get a sudden flash of tracing that ink with soft kisses.

Whoa. 

Continuing my perusal, little bits and pieces come back to me. This guy’s bronzed chest is ridiculously wide and his abs are chiseled all the way down to a very lickable V. I should know, because my tongue was all over it last night. My lips turn up in the corner when I see the beginnings of a neatly trimmed patch of hair. I’ve always appreciated a man that keeps up with his pube maintenance. Nobody wants to suck on hairy balls. Just sayin’.

In case you’re wondering, mystery man’s balls are smooth as a baby’s bottom.

God, why can’t I remember anything other than getting freaky with a faceless stranger?

Is that a nipple ring? Damn. I can’t say I’ve given it much thought before, but that tiny little barbell is hot. The stark white sheet is resting over his package but there’s a considerable bulge beneath the cotton. Plus, if the thing poking me in the ass when I woke up is any indication, this guy is hung.

One little peek won’t hurt, right?

I mean, it’s not like I haven’t seen it before. It’s totally for science—maybe it will trigger another memory. I pinch the sheet between my thumb and forefinger, lifting it just enough to get a look-see-loo.

Wow.

Let’s just say my soreness makes perfect sense now. Also, that memory triggering thing did a bang-up job, because now I know that I somehow fit that anaconda in my mouth. Huh. Maybe I’ve recently learned how to unhinge my jaw.

Jesus.

I guess if you’re going to have a drunken one-night-stand, a nice body and big dick isn’t a bad way to do it, right?

I drop the sheet when the giant next to me groans and rolls to his other side. Shit, I need to stop ogling him and get out of here before he wakes up. I carefully slide out of bed and slink across the floor to the crumpled pile of black fabric. With the dress clenched in my hand, I crawl over to the sitting room and crouch behind a chair to pull it over my head. My panties are MIA so it’s going to be a little drafty, but I’m more concerned about getting out of here unnoticed than searching for them. I can’t bear the thought of leaving my favorite bra behind though, so I risk returning to the bedroom before I go. As I carefully untangle the straps from the lampshade, something on the opposite nightstand catches my eye.

What the hell?

No longer giving any fucks about my stealth, I run to the other side of the bed and grab the cheesy cardboard frame. There’s an eight-by-ten picture inside, of me and a beast of a man, smiling like circus clowns, standing in front of a Lady Gaga impersonator.

Well, that explains that.

If this is the same man lying in that bed—which by his sheer size alone, I’m assuming so—then, the faceless stranger isn’t so faceless anymore, nor is he a stranger. I’m not sure if that makes this situation better or worse though. Why can’t I recall anything? And why am I holding a little bouquet of flowers? I flip the frame over and almost vomit on the spot when I see the logo imprinted on the back.

Hunk of Burning Love Wedding Chapel

Las Vegas, Nevada

Taped to the back is a folded piece of paper. I open it with trembling hands, hoping and praying that I did not do what I think I did last night. I squeeze my eyes shut when I catch a glimpse, willing the words on the paper to change. I open my eyes and look again, but no such luck. I’ve officially become a cliché.

“What in the ever-loving fuck happened last night?!” I shout.

The hulking man groans again from beneath his pillow. I go to rip it off his face, but pause when the sunlight catches the little gold band wrapped around my finger. More specifically, the fourth finger on my left hand. When did that get there? Oh yeah, it must’ve been when I got freaking MARRIED!

I grab the pillow and begin whacking my apparent husband in the face repeatedly.

“Ow! What the fuck?” he screams.

I throw the pillow across the room. “‘What the fuck?!’ What the fuck, is right! This has to be your fault, you stupid asshole!”

“Charlee?”  He blinks his eyes rapidly, clearing the sleep fog. “Why in the hell are you in my room? And why are you beating the shit out of me?”

“That’s a great question, Drew! Why the fuck am I in your hotel room?”

The big oaf grins widely as he takes me in. It’s pretty obvious that I’m wearing a walk-of-shame dress. I’m sure my wild hair isn’t helping matters either.

“Did we hook up last night? Damn, I really wish I could remember that.”

The picture frame bounces off his beefy chest when I chuck it at him. “Oh, we did a helluva lot more than that, you idiot!”

He scrubs a hand over his face before picking up the evidence of my living nightmare. It takes a few seconds for it to register, but once he too realizes what we did, his eyes widen and his jaw slackens.

“Holy shit.”

Yeah, holy shit, indeed.

I just married my brother’s best friend.