Chapter Twenty-one

I’m lying on the couch with a towel soaked in vinegar rested across my midsection, and an ice pack pressed to my forehead.

Arlie sits in a chair opposite me, staring at me with a look of worry scrunching up his face.

He should be worried, because the moment I can get up, I’m going to slap him stupid.

First, my dress lifted above my head back on the beach, showing the world my knickers. Then I mistook the host of this stupid show for the mystery guy I was supposed to be meeting. I attacked a flying dildo. I kicked that same flying dildo. I kissed a man I barely knew in a moment of tears that turned into passion. Now that same man has peed all over me after I sustained a jellyfish sting.

What the hell are my mother, father, and sister going to think when they see this? Hell, what are my work colleagues and my friends at The Quarter going to say?

Chris? I know he’ll find this funny as hell, and he’ll never let me live a minute of it down.

Arrrrgh! What a mess.

How much does it cost to blackmail a director? What figure will it take to prevent this embarrassing footage from making it to the air? If I don’t stop this, I’ll never be able to show my face in public for as long as I live.

Day one: Everything’s gone to shit. Everything that can go wrong is, has, and I believe will continue to do so.

“Are you okay?” Arlie says hesitantly.

“Um … vinegar, bright spark. You use vinegar on a jellyfish sting, not urine.” I flare my nostrils as I contain my anger. “Arlie, you peed on me.”

He chuckles.

“It’s not funny.”

“Some of my piss pooled in your belly button, and I had to kind of roll you onto your side so that it would empty.”

I cover my face with my hands and suck back a harsh mouthful of air. His booming laughter follows. “Arlie, it’s not funny. None of this is funny.”

“Oh, but it is.” He continues to laugh.

“I didn’t even have a camel toe. I rocked the damn canoe for no reason at all.”

“I’m sorry. I swear I am.” There’s still humour in his tone.

“So why are you laughing?”

“Because it’s funny.” And there he goes again. Deep laughter fills the room.

I close my eyes and hope when I open them none of this has even occurred. I hope that this has been a horrible nightmare, and when I wake, I’ll be home, curled into a ball on my bed, wearing a fluffy bunny outfit. There’ll be a needy cat tucked under my arse, hogging the bed like he usually does.

One long, steady breath has my limbs relaxing.

I bet we failed the task, and due to this sting, we won’t receive the prize. Another slow inhale sees the last of my pain disappear.

I don’t want the stupid prize anyway. I want to go home.

My eyelids grow heavy, my heart slows, and the need for sleep overcomes me. I attempt to fight it, but I fail.

***

Birds chirping have my eyelids fluttering open. The sunlight is bright, so bright I squeeze my eyes shut before rolling onto my side to escape the glare. A piece of fabric as soft as silk rests against my cheek; my head is supported by what I can only describe as a mink blanket balled underneath it.

Where am I?

I open my eyes as I run my hand in a semi-circle beside me. Sheets—I can feel the thread count of expensive sheets below my fingertips. The last thing I remember is lying on a suede lounge chair with a towel against my belly in a two-piece swimsuit.

The pressure to my neck from the string of my bikini top is absent, which has my hand shifting across my chest. I gasp. I drag my hand farther down over my chest, my stomach, and only stop when I reach my mid-thigh. What’s happening? I’m wearing a long cotton T-shirt.

I launch my body upright. My eyes shoot open. I hold my breath.

What the hell?

I flick the blankets off. I'm wearing a blue T-shirt with nipples erect and bosoms unholstered. Holy shit! I’m completely naked under here. My beaver is roaming free and loose, and that’s not the way this beaver likes to roll. It’s a modest creature who enjoys the security that covering it brings. So, if I'm dressed like this, it can mean only one thing: someone who was not me has changed me.

Arlie?

I leap from the mattress, tucking the material of the T-shirt between my legs. My head pounds like it does after I’ve downed a bottle of scotch.

Where is my underwear? Where’s my bra? Where’s my memory? What the hell happened last night? Can a jellyfish sting give you a hangover? Can it erase memories like dancing the mumbo with a bottle of liquor can? Why don’t I know the answer to these questions? Why is my head not only pounding, but so freaking fuzzy too? Why do I feel like I do after I’ve drunk myself stupid and woken up to the realisation I’ve had sex?

I swallow in a gulp.

Did I have sex?