Never in my life had I felt so awful.

Before I even opened my eyes, I could tell that this headache was going to be one of the worst; and once they were open, it only made a bad situation all the more terrible. My mouth felt like I’d been licking the back of a cat and my entire body ached like I’d just run a marathon. And if that wasn’t bad enough, I didn’t have any clue where the hell I was.

The moment that fact crossed my mind I sat bolt upright on the feather bed, clutching the soft, luxurious sheets to my very naked chest. It took me a few seconds to realize that I was in a hotel, and another few to realize how bad of an idea sitting up had been. A wave of nausea overtook me, my stomach threatening to remind me about last night’s dinner. It was bad enough that I couldn’t remember—nor did I remember anything else about last night—but to not even know where I was? That was a new level of inebriation, even for me.

Gradually I gathered my thoughts and brought myself out of the initial panic of waking up in some strange hotel room without even a vague sense of how I’d gotten there. You’re fine, Liz, I told myself. This could have been way, way worse than it is.

I’d heard plenty of horror stories from my friend Jenna—most of them firsthand accounts—about waking up in strange places with strange men. There was the awkward staring and the refusal to make eye contact, and the part where you get the hell out of there before a tiny mistake turns into another failed relationship.

Of course, none of Jenna’s stories ever involved waking up in a suite like this. It was the kind of room I’d never be able to afford on my own. Light poured in from the penthouse windows and spilled over designer furniture that probably cost more than my car. That thought opened a pit in my stomach; there was no way I could have paid for this even if I maxed out every single one of my credit cards. Money was tight enough as it was, and if I’d just blown a week’s pay on one night in a hotel room, I was in real trouble…

I looked around, squinting against the dull ache still pounding behind my eyes, I saw the metallic glint of a tin bucket and the slender neck of a champagne bottle poking out of it. My heart felt like it had skipped a beat.

I never would have ordered champagne if I was alone. Someone else must have come up here with me.

A soft grunt rose from beneath the mound of rumpled sheets beside me. I watched quietly as the mound began to move and a devastatingly muscular arm slipped out. Whoever it belonged to had biceps for days, and I couldn’t help but stare at the way it was wreathed in tattoos.

Oh, God! My heart dropped to my stomach. I had a one-night stand?! Oh Jesus, this is bad… Jenna will never let me live this down.

The last thing I wanted was for this bastard to wake up. I was mortified enough as it was, and the thought of having to make excuses for why I was about to sneak out of that hotel room after a night of God-knows-what wasn’t exactly on my agenda for the day.

This was so unlike me. Sure, I’m no angel, but I’m not the kind of girl who wakes up in strange hotel rooms either!

The man-shaped lump beneath the sheets shifted again, but otherwise showed no signs of waking up. I still had time to get out of here unscathed, but some small part of me wanted to at least know what he looked like. What kind of man would I deem worthy of taking to bed on an ill-advised whim? I rubbed my bleary eyes with the back of my wrist. Did it really matter? Weren’t the circumstances still the same in the end?

But maybe… maybe it would give me some kind of closure. Maybe knowing even the smallest detail of what had transpired last night would make me feel like I wasn’t such an idiot, or at least give me some small amount of control. Already the fog seemed to be lifting from my mind. Seeing this man’s face might clear the hangover haze and help me get a handle on exactly what I’d done. Those were all very good reasons to take a peek, weren’t they?

I moved aside one of the pillows, revealing a wealth of dark hair. He was lying on his stomach, face turned from me, and those locks were an absolute wreck—not in quality, but in the sleepy, snarled way hair gets when you’ve been tossing and turning all night long…

Or when you spend the evening engaged in rigorous physical activity.

If he’d been standing, the ends of his hair probably would have dangled somewhere just below his jaw. I wasn’t usually into guys with long hair. What was I thinking?

Gingerly, I tugged down the sheets just enough to expose his shoulder and back. The tattoos I’d seen on his arm continued up in a full sleeve, one that extended all the way into his shoulder blade and partway down his side. They were extremely well-done. I didn’t normally go for tattoos, but these clearly meant something to him. They’d been painstakingly designed, turning his skin into a work of art. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the design was somehow familiar…

But no. It couldn’t be. My gaze snagged on a watercolor splash of orange along his back, where a massive koi fish spanned down to the spur of his hip. It was a unique style with incredible detail carefully laid into the scales.

A design I’d definitely seen before.

It had to be a copycat. Had to be. There was no way I’d slept with…

With another rumbling groan, the man turned over and let out a lazy sigh, blowing his hair back from his face and removing all doubt as to his identity.

I’d just had a one-night stand with Julian Bastille. The rock star.

And not just any rock star—Julian was one of Britain’s sexiest men alive. He was a legend in the arena of alternative rock, with a voice that sounded like Brendon Urie, Dave Grohl, and Thom Yorke had spliced their DNA into a silver-tongued lovechild. He’d been on top of the UK charts for years, and every time he wasn’t, it seemed like he chose that exact moment to drop a brand new sexy single better than anything that had come before.

Or at least… He used to.

Julian Bastille had dropped off the charts a few years ago. Why he disappeared was a bit of a mystery.

Not that any of that mattered to people on this side of the Atlantic ocean…

I knew all this because my best friend Jen was absolutely in love with all things Julian Bastille. He didn’t have much of a following in the US, but she more than made up for that with her zealotry. She owned every album in digital and vinyl. She’d bought some fancy old record player and a pair of thousand dollar speakers just to prove she was an über-fan. Jen once told me she’d kill to fuck Britain’s most wanted. And despite her smile, I was pretty sure she was serious when she said it.

Maybe alt-rock wasn’t my thing, but objectively, even I had to appreciate the sonorous and honeyed texture of the man’s voice. There was talent there, sure, even when he gave up that dulcet lilt in favor of a rasp comprised of smoke and gravel. Okay, maybe especially then. He could scream like nobody’s business and somehow remain perfectly on key. Credit where credit was due. The man had a talented tongue.

That little thought made a shiver run straight up my spine.

As quietly as I could, I climbed out of the bed’s soft embrace. My fingertips gingerly pulled free the blankets in the hopes that I wouldn’t wake Julian. The chilly air raised gooseflesh all over my body, making me acutely aware of just how naked I was as I tiptoed around the room and gathered up my haphazardly strewn clothes. As I slipped my panties on, I tried to count my blessings. Maybe I’d had a one-night-stand, but there wasn’t a woman on the planet who could look down on me for it.

I guess even Drunk Liz has high standards. I thought to myself. My mind ran over ever sexy line of his face, with little glimpses of the night before peeking their way up from my broken memory. I could practically see his eyes—vibrant green set against fair skin, mischievous and mysterious and sexy. I’d stared into those eyes last night. He had a series of pretty gold flecks around his pupils, and a ring around the outside of his irises that reminded me of the color of storm clouds at dusk.

I tried to shake off the image, but those eyes would not readily leave me. They were… haunting. Something about them was profound. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but they drew you in, beckoning in a way that was utterly mesmerizing. Maybe it was the paradox of the equal shares they held in both melancholy and irreverence. An allusion to something darker and more dangerous below the surface. Something more real.

I tried to direct my mind to someplace else and this time it obeyed, busy with the task of getting my trembling fingers to properly clasp the back of my bra. Now was not the time for me to be dwelling on Julian Bastille’s best qualities. I needed to get the hell out of here and forget this had ever happened, because no matter how hot or skilled he was, he was also defined by one absolute truth.

He was a player.

Julian Bastille was a wild thing that could never be tied down. His musical career was overshadowed by sex scandal after sex scandal. He’d worked his way through half the A and B list celebrities, and everybody knew that was only the beginning.

I wasn’t about to subject myself to the scrutiny of having slept with a man who viewed sexual conquest like it was some sort of a competition. I wanted to get the hell out of there before the paparazzi came calling, or before Julian had the chance to wake up and make me feel like I was just another notch in his bed post. I’d already done a number on my own self-esteem by now. I didn’t need him adding fuel to the raging dumpster fire of my existential crisis.

It didn’t help that brief flashes of Julian fucking me senseless kept playing out in my mind. Butterflies were rising in my stomach as I glanced back at the insanely sexy man sprawled out in the bed. If I didn’t get out of here soon, I might end up joining him for round two…

After I managed to find my blouse, I began to feel a little bit more relaxed, even more so after I slipped my dark pencil skirt up and over my hips. The more clothed I was, the less vulnerable I felt—like with each button I thumbed into place, I secured a strap on my armor. It was only once I’d completed my ensemble that I felt a sense of calm sweep over me. Everything was going to be all right. I could do this. All that stood between me and sweet freedom was the distance between me and the door.

I grabbed my purse from underneath the room service cart and slipped on my pumps just as I heard another sleep-thick groan rumble up from Julian’s throat. I winced with every step I took toward the exit, hoping my steps were soft enough to avoid fully waking him. The broad expanse of his chest stretched across the mattress as he turned onto his back, one arm draped across his eyes. I turned the handle as quietly as I could, holding my breath and praying to whatever god was listening that the hinges wouldn’t squeak.

They didn’t. The moment the heavy door opened, I took off as quickly as I dared in my tall heels, thankful for the carpeted hallway that muffled my steps. I didn’t stop until I reached the elevators, where I jammed my thumb into the call button repeatedly, hoping it would somehow make the car ascend faster. The light streaming in through the windows made that low, convulsive pain in my head crescendo into a sensation best described as “the inside of my skull is lined with razor blades.” While I waited on the elevator I fished in my purse for my sunglasses, inwardly cursing myself.

How late had I slept? What time was it? My cell phone was dead. There had to be a clock in the lobby, but I hated not knowing just how badly I’d screwed up. All these loose ends made me feel like I’d lost control of myself and the situation, and if there was one thing in life I was unwilling to lose, ever, it was control.

The chime of the elevator car’s arrival heralded my salvation. I was so desperate to get the hell out of there that as the doors opened, I came inches from barreling into a woman standing in the car. She was dressed in a sharply tailored suit and holding a drink carrier containing two venti coffees from Starbucks. Had I put on the brakes even half a second later, I would have spilled their steaming contents all the way down the front of her cream, silk blouse.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, wilting beneath her glare. Without so much as a word she marched out of the elevator, a sneer on her lips, and as I watched her go, I sneered right back. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything. Well, score one for me.

“Home free,” I muttered as I pressed the button for the lobby. At least, I hoped I was. With any luck, I’d be able to put all of this behind me and get on with my life. I still had so much to figure out… For example, I needed to figure out how to get back to my own hotel, and I still needed to pack up before my flight back home.

And where the hell did I put my notes from last night’s conference…

I should never have mixed pleasure with business. As long as I was the only one who ever knew, there was no reason to stress too much over it. My reputation was the most important thing I had in life, and I nurtured it like a child. No way was I going to let some rock star ruin it. Julian Bastille had no idea what it was like to live under the weight of other people’s expectations. I, on the other hand, couldn’t afford to make even one tiny little mistake.

Not when I had so much to lose.

I could only hope that what all those travel brochures and commercials claimed was true…

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.