Chapter 7

Becky

10:31 AM THURSDAY

I bite back the tears, but it’s fucking difficult.

Hollow. Empty. I feel hollow and empty.

If Dan never speaks to me again when he finds out what happened, I won’t even be able to blame him.

I trust you to make good decisions.

And what the fuck did I do? Fucking blow it all by trashing the bridal suite and fucking some sexy British dude I never met before.

Bad Becky.

Fucking bad choices.

“Here we go.” Mysti May comes into the living room with thick black coffee. “Not as good as Becky’s fuckboy’s, I’m afraid, but I’ve put them in Texas-sized mugs.”

I take mine gratefully. I’ll need at least five or six of those before I’ll feel halfway human, since I’m still hungover as shit.

I take a sip of the strong brew and close my eyes as the bitter taste washes over my tongue.

“What the fuck are we going to do now?” Sammi asks.

She looks pale, and she’s still shivering a little. For a woman who swims with sharks, dolphins. and everything else in between in her research, I think the whole pool-shark fiasco really shook her up.

We all stare at each other. Normally, when we fuck up this bad, Sammi’s quick thinking saves us. But she’s looking more hungover than anyone.

And without her, we’re clueless.

I rummage around in my foggy brain, but draw a blank. I wish I’d never come on this fucking bachelorette party. One night in, and my life is ruined.

Why hadn’t we just gone to the spa, gone shopping, watched Netflix and been done with it?

But then anger wells up a little. If Dan had been here, none of this would have fucking happened.

He knows who I am. Who I used to be, and how easy it is for a former party girl to relapse in the City of Sin.

The feeling doesn’t last long, though.

I can’t blame Dan for my fuck-ups. I’m not one to blame someone else for my mistakes.

And as far as mistakes go, this one takes the fucking wedding cake.

Percy smiles sleepily at us, waving her hand like she can wave all of our worries away.

“I’ll call James. It’s cool. He’ll know what to do.”

Without elaborating, she leaves the room.

“Who the fuck is James?” Mysti May asks.

Sammi shrugs. “You know how Percy is. Sugar daddies all over the place. Probably one of her adoring fuckboys.”

Mysti May arches her eyebrows. “Let’s just hope he’s a wizard, I guess.”

Before I can answer, Percy returns.

“James is a retired private investigator,” she explains and sits back on the leather lounge, folding her legs under her.

“What’s he going to do for us? Lead a fucking investigation? Into what?” Sammi asks, not hiding her annoyance.

Percy laughs. “Don’t be a cunt, Sammi. I asked him for, y’know. Tips. It’s a mystery, right? So I told him how we need to work out what happened last night.”

At this, a little glimmer of hope ignites deep within me. All may not be lost. If we can work out what the fuck happened, we may be able to get a better picture of last night—and with any luck, maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem right now.

“And what did he suggest?” Sammi asked.

We’re now all hanging on each and every one of Percy’s words.

“He said we should start by interviewing any witnesses, and then move onto our mobile phones. Look at the phone numbers dialed or any incoming calls we might have taken. There could be clues everywhere.”

“The showgirls,” Mysti May and I say at the same time. Except hers sounded more like a groan.

As luck would have it, she hasn’t managed to get rid of them yet. We find them raiding the minibar—or what’s left of it.

From the smell of things, mostly peach schnapps.

“Explain to me what happened last night,” Sammi commands, but none of the girls answer. They just look at her blankly, shrug, and pass the tiny bottle of liquor.

I take a step forward and smile at them.

“Hi. I’m Becky,” I start. When I’m not fucking my life up, I plan parties for a living. Talking to people is kind of my deal. “Do you ladies have, like…names?”

“Danushka,” replies the one with the tattoo. “And this is Alice, and this is River.”

I nod. “Okay, Danushka.” I take another deep breath in and out to make sure I’m totally calm. “So, like, here’s the deal. We don’t remember, like, fuck all from last night. Could you fill us in?”

Danushka grins. “We give pleasure to this woman.” She’s pointing at Mysti May. “We kiss her body and her tits. I use my tongue to lick off cream of belly button.”

Generally, this would be a time for high-fives and ass-slaps. But Mysti May’s face is so red, I can’t even bring myself to tease her about it.

“You can, uh, spare the details,” I tell the showgirl. “What time did you get here? Was anyone with you?”

Danushka shakes her head. “Time is an illusion. We arrived with your lovely woman. She love it when River started sucking and licking on her pussy. Cream goes everywhere, and we lick it all up like wild cats with fresh milk.”

I don’t need to look at Mysti May to know she’s hiding her face in her hands.

“So. I lick her pussy and River suck her tits. Lots of cream—whipped, pussy, et cetera. And then she reciprocates. Very good at it, too. Much practice, I think. Then—”

I hold up my hand to stop her detailed explanation. It won’t add anything to our investigation, no matter the way that Percy is hanging onto every word like Christmas just came early.

I sigh. What has started out promising was fizzling out rather fast. The only witnesses we have are really fucking useless—unless Mysti May really wants to know what she got up to last night.

“Do you remember…I mean, like, anything not involving sex?”

“Eh. Not really.” Out of nowhere, Danushka materializes another can of cream and shakes it. “Another round, perhaps?”

“Useless.” Sammi shakes her head.

“I don’t know,” Percy says, stroking her chin. “I think I need to hear more.”

“No,” Mysti May begs. “I swear, I would never—”

I sigh, again. The jackhammer in my head is hard at work again. It’s so fucking loud I fear I may go deaf, or my head might explode.

Fuck.

I play with my phone. What had Percy’s friend suggested? Interview witnesses and look at your mobile.

That’s it, I need to look at my own fucking phone. Maybe I’ll find a clue there.

I scroll through my list of numbers. There’s one I don’t recognize. Instantly, I press it, and put the phone on speaker, so we can all hear.

It rings once, twice, three times and keeps going. My heart’s beating a little faster, and I feel sweat on the palm of my hands.

As I listen to the ringing, I get more and more agitated. This number is my only clue right now. What if it just rings out? Please fucking answer the phone, I say to myself over and over.

“Hey there, hot stuff. You’ve reached the Post Office, where every package is over-sized and overstuffed for your pleasure. If you’re in need of a special delivery, press 69 now.”

The voice is a sensual, sexual man’s voice.

Now Percy looks like we’ve just announced a second Christmas.

Sammi has it researched before I even hang up the phone.

“It’s a fucking strip club,” she announces, holding up her phone. “They specialize in…big packages.”

My eyes widen in horror as I stare at the picture Sammi’s holding up on her iPad. Half-naked men are grinning at me from ear to ear.

A fucking strip club.

Why the fuck would I call a male strip club?

To organize a stripper, a little voice pipes up. But I’ve never organized a stripper before.

Now the news are coming in thick and fast.

“Hey, guys look at this,” Percy holds up her mobile.

There appear to be numerous photos of us out and about town. To my utter amazement, we actually made it to the Celine Dion concert. Christ. And I can’t even remember belting along with “My Heart Will Go On”.

I glance over Percy’s shoulder to see the images.

The first few are of us attending the concert. They’re the most harmless ones. I don’t even look drunk. Then there are pictures of us backstage. How the fuck we ended up back stage with Celine is beyond me.

We seem pretty friendly with Celine, actually. She’s holding up a glass of champagne and has her arm around my waist on one side. I’m grinning into the camera.

Frantically, I rummage around my brain.

Celine Dion. Celine Dion. Celine Dion. Celine Dion.

I draw a fucking blank.

I just can’t recall going to the concert.

My breathing increases, and the world looks a little blurry.

Fuck.

Here come those darn tears again.

We look through Mysti May’s photos next. Most of them are either of someone’s thumb, or of Mysti May doing unholy things with the showgirls. Very drunk. I don’t think they’ll add anything to the unraveling of last night.

Fuck.

Sammi’s phone. I smack the palm of my hand onto my forehead. Sammi’s phone is the only lifeline that we have left, and she drowned the fucking thing in the toilet before she decided to fall asleep in the swimming pool.

We need to get a new phone for Sammi and see if her service provider can tell us what she’s been up to. I cling to this thought like a drowning swimmer clings to a piece of driftwood.

“Okay,” I tell the showgirls. “Time to go.”

They complain, of course, but after promising them the remaining contents of the minibar and Mysti May’s phone number, we manage to kick them out.

On the floor where they were sitting, however, we discover the strangest fucking thing.

“Huh,” I say, gingerly pinching up a rhinestone-covered white jumpsuit with an attached cape.

“Is that…an Elvis costume?” Sammi asks, squinting.

As I stare at it, images flash through my mind: lopsided side burns. Mirrored sunglasses. A red scarf. The lyrics to “Burning Love”.

Elvis.

Oh, shit.

I can’t bear to think this thought through to its natural conclusion.

“I-I remember something,” I say, looking dazed.

I can feel my bridesmaids leaning in, as eager to grab onto this information as I am.

“I fucked Elvis,” I admit.

And then it all comes rushing back, like a hunk-a-hunk of burning love right to the uterus.