Chapter 35

Sammi

4:20 PM SATURDAY

I stand up like Spartacus before the fucking Romans and level a finger at the weed-thieving monkey currently headed toward the balcony with an entire kilo of Mary Jane.

“Catch that fucking monkey,” I announce, zero goddamn context. “That little bastard stole my award!”

Well. Stole might not be the most accurate statement. My dumb, drunk ass gave it to the monkey, and the monkey took it to do who-fucking-knows with it.

For all I know, the symbol of the only thing I’ve done right since being in Bangkok could be on the roof, stuck in the elevator, hidden beneath that pile of Percy and Mysti May’s pussy ping-pong balls, or at the bottom of the Chao Phraya by now.

But whatever happened to it, one thing’s for sure: I want it back.

Maybe I’m just stalling. I consider it as I dive at the monkey across the living room floor, my fists narrowly missing the opportunity to close around its mangy little tail. It’s entirely possible that I’m focusing all of my energy, my emotions, and my rage at this poor little monkey, wherever the hell it came from, so I don’t have to think about anything else.

Like the fact that I really did marry Lock last night.

Or the fact that I told him I loved him. Over and over again. And he said it back.

And we both meant it.

I might be trying to distract myself from the fact that I brought him back here with me. That we laughed and fucked and—no, not even fucked. We made love out on the balcony, and he held me in his arms.

I’m definitely trying to ignore the fact that I didn’t want to forget what I forgot. That every clue I tracked down today and every memory I collected and recollected—that all of that was pushing me closer and closer to this inevitability that at this point, even I can’t deny.

I fell in love with Lock last night. Or maybe I feel in love with him three years ago on yet another wild, drunken night.

Christ, maybe I’ve always loved him. Maybe soulmates really do exist and fate is real, everything happens for a reason and all of this—every hateful, infuriating, insane chaotic moment—maybe all of it was building to this from the start.

From the moment our ancestors crawled out of the ocean and onto land.

From the very point in time when the elements that make up our bodies were released from exploding stars.

I’ve been looking at last night as a mistake.

Or rather, I’ve been looking at is as a series of mistakes. A cart full of horseshit and bad decisions that only picked up speed as it rolled downhill. A fistful of fuck yous to my master plan.

But now, I’m wondering if maybe this wasn’t the way it was meant to be. Or, if nothing else, maybe it was the best possible outcome.

Lock and Sammi. Sammi and Lock.

Samira Williams-Brighton.

Mrs. Lachlan Williams.

It sounds a hell of a lot better than Mrs. Eggbert Humphrey, at any rate.

So, okay. Say that it was all meant to be. Say that love really does exist beyond my scheming and calculations. Say that I really do love Lock.

What now?

I feel bad for punching him in the nose, for one.

And for stealing his motorcycle.

And definitely for pushing him in the river.

The monkey leaps into the air, rebounds off of poor Liam’s face, and launches himself into the twinkling embrace of the suite’s crystal chandelier.

One thing’s for sure: I still want my fucking award back.

“Bad monkey! No!” Ladyboy Celine Dion says, pointing an aggressive, sparkly-tipped finger at the monkey as—of all things—he rips into the bag of weed, pulls a Thai baht out of his vest and begins to roll a joint.

“I’ll be damned,” Liam swears, staring up at the monkey in awe. “The horny little bastard smokes weed.”

“I don’t know how I feel about this,” Becky says, crossing her arms and staring up at the monkey’s impeccable rolling skills. “I don’t even smoke weed. Does this monkey seriously go harder than me? Like, that’s not fair, right?”

“Y’all,” Mysti May says, putting her hand on her hip. “I know that no one else wants to say it, but I think we need to kill the monkey.”

“No!” I say before Miss. Texas decides to pull out a concealed six-shooter and take matters into her own hands. “I need that monkey, Mysti May.”

“Poor little guy just wants to get lit, Myst,” Becky says solemnly. “Blaze on, little dude.”

“I need the Monkey sober, Becks. I…” I place my face in my hands and suppress a scream over what I’m about to say next. “I gave the little bastard my award last night and told him not to give it back to me until I remembered everything.”

“That’s great, though!” Becky said, grinning. “Because now you have, right?”

I look around the trashed suite, drawing in a deep breath. “I think so,” I say. “But I don’t know how to convey that to…him.”

I gesture at the monkey in frustration, and he looks down at me like I’ve deeply offended him. What exactly he’s offended about, I’ve got no fucking idea. He’s the one hanging from the chandelier, rolling joints from an increasingly irritated Thai Ladyboy’s bag of weed.

“Maybe remembering isn’t enough,” Becky says, taking my hands into hers. Her little green eyes are lit up with hope—Becky always was such a romantic. “Maybe…maybe you need to remember why you need to remember. Maybe this is it, Sammi! You fell in love last night! Maybe you need to remember why.”

I roll my eyes. Hard.

“Lock Williams is…I don’t know that you can call what I have with Lock love, Becks.”

Which is true. I’m not just being frustrating, I fucking swear. How am I supposed to piece together a bunch of half-remembered drunken sexcapades into something resembling love?

It doesn’t add up. Does not compute. Calculation: failed.

“He rescued you from the mafia,” Liam reminds me.

“And he took you to that aquarium,” Mysti May adds. “You nerds love aquariums!”

“He married you last night, Sams.” Becky squeezes my hands and looks at me pleadingly. “Lock Williams, playboy billionaire marine biologist. Married you. Don’t you think that means something?”

I shake my head. Not because it means nothing to me…

But because I don’t know what it means.

“None of that is love, guys,” I say with a sigh while Weed Monkey swings above us, his joint held between his teeth as he pats his little vest down for a light. “That’s not love, is it? That’s just a series of actions. They don’t necessarily mean anything.”

“Sammi B.! What is love if not a series of actions carried out with meaning!?” Becky looks like I’m breaking her little romantic’s heart right now, which I hate to do—but I just can’t get with this.

“I don’t know!” I drag my hands out of Becky’s clutches and run my fingers through my hair. “Love is—love is flowers! Roses and lilies or some shit! It’s fucking communicating—telling each other stuff instead of sending each other on wild goose chases around Bangkok fucking Thailand all day trying to piece together clues.

“It’s not just getting married, Becks. It’s putting the rings on each other’s fingers so you have proof of it the next morning when you wake up.”

“I know you don’t mean that, Sammi,” Becky says, looking disappointed at me.

But she doesn’t have long to look at me like that, because the doorbell to the suite rings, and she has to go and get it.

“So. Let’s talk planning,” I say, seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation over to literally anything else. “How are we getting this monkey out of the chandelier?”

“We could—aw, bollocks,” Liam says, cut off mid-sentence by the doorbell again.

I disregard who the fuck could possibly be needing shit from me right now while I’m busy dealing with Weed Monkey problems—and turn to Mysti May instead.

“I could put you on my shoulders and you could grab a broom?”

She chuckles to herself. “Like we used to do at frat parties. Drunk girl jousting! Yeah, that could—oh, what the fuck even?”

And then Mysti May stomps off too as the doorbell rings. Again.

“Did you order pizza or something?” I ask Ladyboy Celine Dion.

She shakes her head. “You don’t order Thai pizza before you’ve smoked the weed. Trust me.”

So, there I am. Staring up at the monkey. Watching it stare back down at me. Standing in the living room of the suite with Ladyboy Celine Dion, our metaphorical dicks in our hands.

And that’s when I hear it.

Becky Black’s smug little voice.

“Hey, Sammi…come here.”

“I’m busy, Becks!” I yell back. “Why?”

“Because, ya dumb slut! You’re gonna want to see this.”