I can’t believe I slept with that jackass. What is wrong with me?

All right, don’t panic Julia.

Frazzled, I take the elevator down to ten and hustle back to my room. The plastic key card slips out of my hands once, twice, until finally I get the door open and stumble inside. I walk into the bedroom, grateful for the fact that at least the curtains are still drawn. The room exists in that cozy almost twilight, Shanna’s bed still rumpled from having been slept in. Mine, on the other hand, is pristine, the sheets perfect, the pillows plumped. Never made it back here last night.

Oh God. Think, Julia. Did you actually do the nasty? Did you fuck the Worst Guy Ever? And if you did, can you remember if he was good or not?

Wow, brain. Not the time.

I groan as I flip on the lights and rush into the bathroom. I need a shower. That’s it. A good hot shower will stop the pounding headache. I look at the mirror over the sink, grimacing at my smeared eye makeup. Then, just to make sure, I pull down my skirt, turn around, and bam. Tattooed TARDIS, right square over my ass. My Whovian heart has led me astray at last.

“Well, Ten, here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten us into,” I grumble.

Confession: I like to imagine that the Tenth Doctor is kind of like the physical embodiment of my wild and crazy side. I mean, he’s played by David Tennant. How could he not be reckless?

Okay, I need to focus on things other than my imaginary Time Lord and my hangover. I groan and close my eyes. This is all alcohol’s fault. God as my witness, I will never do shots again. For at least forty-eight hours, that is.

I turn on the shower full blast. I’m pretty sure this is going to mess with my tattoo—I try smoothing the square of plastic wrap back over it—but fuck it. There is no time. Before I get in the stall, I look back at my reflection. I need a pep talk.

“Okay, stay calm,” I say aloud, my voice a little jarring in the otherwise silent hotel room. I breathe deeply. Nothing terrible has happened. It’s not like I’m late for any—

Oh fuck. I rush into the bedroom to check the clock on the nightstand, and freak out a little. Shit. My panel! Sex, Lies, and Superspies starts in half an hour!

“Shitballs and fucksticks,” I mutter, and run out to the bed to grab my laptop. And that’s when I make a wonderful, nauseating discovery: my purse and laptop aren’t here. At all. Even when I get on my hands and knees and inspect under the beds, under the table, and in every cabinet drawer, they still elude me. I plant my face in a pillow and give a loud, muffled scream.

Okay, Julia. Don’t melt down. Don’t go on a rampage. Think. And maybe shower, because you smell like cigarettes and bad decisions.

I rush back to the bathroom, undress fully, yanking off my bra and panties, and jump into the shower. I lather up as fast as I can. I’m out, toweled, and dressed in ten minutes flat. My makeup is hastily applied in an additional three.

Okay. I stand back and admire myself in the mirror. Cute. I look cute. It looks a little bit like I made out with the Joker and took off some of his lipstick, but right now there’s nothing much else I can do.

“Nate Wexler. You are a monster,” I grunt. Then I grab my key and race out the door. Damn, damn. I’m supposed to be at my panel at least ten minutes beforehand. This is cutting it dangerously close.

I race down the carpeted halls, take the elevator, and soon find myself standing outside one of the galleria rooms. There are clusters of women chatting together as I stumble towards the raised stage. A woman with a clipboard and a tense expression rolls her eyes as I stagger up to her.

“Sorry I’m late. I had an, ah, emergency,” I say, adjusting my bra strap. I am a professional, dammit.

“Whatever. You’re on time,” the woman grunts, and turns her back on me.

Everyone’s a real sweetheart this morning.

I climb up the stairs to the stage, heart jackhammering in my chest, and sit down in the seat marked for me. My newest book, Forbidden Desire, is sitting right in front of me on a stand. Already, the women by the door have taken their seats, and the room is filling with cheerful smiles and excited faces.

I take a deep breath. Be poised and calm, Julia. You can do this.

“Hey there.” I turn to find Shanna sitting next to me, wiggling her eyebrows.“Hey.” I smile, and she smiles back, and I smile wider, and she smiles wider back, and I’m pretty sure we’re going to have to stop this soon because I think my face is going to rip. “Are you okay? Why do you look like you want to slather me in butter and eat me?” Granted, I’d eat anything slathered in butter. Even myself.

“Just proud of you.” She throws an arm around me and kisses my cheek. “Congrats, you know?” She giggles.

Shanna never giggles. Wait.

“You remember where we were last night?” I say, grabbing her hand. Finally, her overjoyed smile eases somewhat.

“You mean you don’t remember?” Her eyes widen.

“I would love to. Holy shit, remembering would be the sweetest thing right about now,” I say. “What did I do?”

“I don’t know,” she says, now looking kind of freaked out. “After the club, I thought—”

“What club?” I ask, but we have to shut up. The moderator sits down at her podium: Brenda Summersby, queen of the Revolutionary spy romance.

We do a quick intro, running down the table. It’s me, Shanna, Jane Morningside (real name Cathy Grimsby), and a couple of e-book only authors. The whole time we’re all laughing and exchanging stories of researching espionage, my skull seems to be pounding.

Just make it to the end of the panel. Then Shanna can tell me all about the glorious things I did or, hopefully, didn’t do last night.

“I think we’ll take some questions,” Brenda says, opening the floor for discussion.

A thirty-something woman stands up and asks Shanna about her Babylon Corrino series. While Shanna is talking about Hypatia Mercurado, alien queen, and her tortured backstory, I notice a guy in a suit enter and stand off to the side of the room. He looks fortyish, with thinning hair and a wilting moustache. Definitely not the typical romance reader, but hey, it’s always nice to know you can move people outside the target demographic.

But the unnerving thing is . . . that he’s looking at me. Constantly. Even when other people are speaking.

Nah. No. Nope. No way. This day has been hell enough already and it’s only just started. I don’t need Men in Black rejects following me around, making me even more paranoid than I already am. Maybe this guy just really likes my latest hero Jack Fathom and his naughty BDSM helicopter rides over Puget Sound. Anything is possible, man.

But then I watch as a guy in a full on security guard outfit enters and stands right beside Gray Suit, and I know I’m screwed. They’re both staring at me now.

“Julia? Hello?” Brenda says. Oh, shit. I completely wasn’t paying attention. The nice-looking lady in the audience is now staring at me expectantly.

“Sorry. I, er, had a blackout moment. Get those sometimes. Vegas, you know?” I say. A ripple of laughter goes through the audience, but Gray Suit doesn’t smile. Oh shit. “Unless I’m operating heavy machinery! Then my blood alcohol content is perfectly legal,” I snap, looking at Gray Suit in a panic.

No one laughs at that one. In fact, it’s kind of awkward. Like my life.

When the panel is over, I grab Shanna’s hand. “Can you sneak out with me?” I mutter, keeping my head down and not making eye contact with the fuzz. Shanna, who is no one’s fool, narrows her eyes at me.

“Is this about those guys? Julia, what is going on?” she whispers.

“Why don’t you tell me?” I whisper-shout right back at her. “What did I do last night? Did I kill anyone?”

“No! I mean, I don’t think so,” Shanna says, eyes going even wider.

“Oh, fucking fantastic.”

A man clears his voice right above us. Wincing, I look up and, sure enough, there’s Gray Suit standing over me. He’s got a wicked comb over, and a mouth set to permanent scowl.

I sit up, grinning brightly. Grinning. Always grinning. Even when it hurts.

Ow, my hangover.

“Can I help you?” I ask him, trying not to burst into tears and throw myself on his mercy. I succeed. Just.

“Ms. Stevens, I’m with hotel management. Would you come with me, please?”

Dear God, just tell me I didn’t harm any kittens last night. Or operate a crane lift. Or sell anybody’s organs on the black market. I am pretty sure I’ll be fine so long as none of those things happened. Unless I crane-lifted a bunch of kittens after selling their organs on the black market, because there’s no coming back from that shit. Then you join Hannibal Lecter behind a plexiglass wall for all eternity.

What were we talking about? Oh, right. Hotel management.

“Of course I’ll come with you,” I say, getting up slowly. See, nothing wrong here, sir. Shanna looks at me with wide, freaked out eyes, but I wave her concern away.

It’s not like they’re going to put me in jail, for God’s sake.

They put me in jail. Holy shit. They put me in fucking jail. Call my mother and tell her I love her, call my father and tell him I can’t loan him any more money, call my grandmother and tell her she needs to stop day drinking. I am never getting out of this.

All right, on the plus side, it’s not like I’m sitting in a city jail. It’s a hotel holding room, which basically means beige-colored carpet with beige walls and a beige futon. In Vegas, if they put you in beige, you are seriously fucked. No sequins or rhinestones anywhere means I must have done something abominable.

Okay. I take three deep breaths, trying to achieve my zone of neutrality. Or something. I don’t know! Okay, keep calm, Julia. Maybe they can help. Maybe they can help piece together whatever insane stuff you did last night. Or rather, the weird shit that your David Tennant personality did.

On second thought, maybe talking about Doctor Who would be a very bad thing right now.

The door opens, and Gray Suit—his name’s actually Todd, but I’m sticking with Gray Suit—enters and sits down in a chair opposite me.

“Now Ms. Stevens—”

“I’m not going to prison,” I blurt out. “I’m too soft. I watched Orange is the New Black. I don’t want to eat tampon sandwiches.”

Gray Suit blinks slowly. “Okay. I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Look, what the hell am I even doing here?” I snap. Great, Julia. Get snippy with the authorities. This’ll go down swimmingly. “What is happening?”

Gray Suit sighs. “It’s about what you did last night, Ms. Stevens.”