TEN
Caroline
I feel like an old, wet towel that’s been wrung out and left to dry. I feel…crusty, and dehydrated. Like I swallowed a whole bag of cotton balls.
And then washed it down with a bottle of tequila.
Oh my god. What happened last night?
My head throbs as I crack an eye open, letting in a painful sting of early morning light.
Nope. Not doing this.
I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, blocking out the rest of the light. I’ve been awake for ten seconds, and I already know I need to restart this entire day in about, oh, eight hours.
I start to pull the covers over my head when I stop and look down.
Why am I naked? And whose sheets are these?
As my foggy mind struggles to remember the details of last night, the bedroom door bursts open. Scrambling up, I clutch the blankets to my chest as a wave of nausea hits me.
Yep. Definitely too hungover to move this fast.
The man who barreled in comes to a halt, scowling as he looks me over. “Jesus Christ, you dumb motherfucker.” He clenches his fist like he’s about to put it through the wall, then thinks better of it at the last second.
“Excuse me?” I’m not a morning person on a good day, and this is shaping up to be a very bad day. This guy’s lucky I’m naked right now, or I’d karate chop him in the throat for barging in here and hurling insults at me.
“I think he was talking to me, sweetheart.”
I let out a shriek at the deep voice behind me, spinning around so fast that I fall off the bed. I yank the covers down onto the floor to try and cover myself, and the guy who was apparently in bed with me the whole friggin’ time doesn’t even try and stop me.
Standing up, I wince when I see that he’s naked too. “Did we…?”
“Like rabbits,” he says, continuing to lay there on full display with a tattooed arm slung over his eyes.
“Oh, God.” I think I’m going to be sick.
He’s not repulsive, or anything. In fact, he’s downright gorgeous from what I can see.
And holy shit, can I see a lot.
My cheeks heat as I take in the size of his cock. Even limp and hanging across his thigh it’s impressive. And is that a…?
Yeah. It is.
He’s pierced.
There.
My face flushes crimson as everything south of my navel clenches with piqued curiosity. Part of me wonders what it felt like, but the other part already knows, if the dull ache between my legs is any indication.
Jesus Christ, I cannot believe I slept with him. I don’t even know him!
My eyes flick over to the asshole who barged in, hating that I have a witness to the morning after my first one night stand.
Why is he looking at me like that? Like he’s confused about something.
Probably wondering what the hell I’m still doing here.
I bend down, trying to pick up my clothes without flashing them. The sooner I can get out of here and forget this ever happened, the better.
I feel his eyes following me around the room as he mutters to the guy who apparently has no qualms about letting people see him naked, “What the hell were you thinking, Ten?”
Ten, I guess, moves his arm and lifts his head, squinting at me. “What? She’s hot,” he says by way of explanation.
I roll my eyes as I pick my shoes up off the floor.
Pig.
“Bennett’s gonna have your ass for this, you know that, right? He’s gonna ship you off to Promises, or some other bullshit rehab facility, and we’re gonna have to put the tour on hold. You fucked us, Ten.” He’s looking at me when he says it.
Glaring at me, really. And I don’t appreciate it one goddamn bit.
“Why should Bennett care who I fucked?” Ten asks, growing agitated. He sits up and swings his legs over the bed. Frowning at me over his shoulder, he says, “You’re over eighteen, right?”
Really, Caroline? This guy? You go from Chase to this guy?
I roll my eyes—again—and pick up my bra. My clothes are so scattered you’d think a tornado passed through here.
The guy—who I’m starting to realize looks a lot like Ten, with his tattoos and piercings—runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “Oh my god, you don’t even remember.” He shakes his head, muttering, “Classic Tennessee,” as he grabs the remote and turns on the TV.
He flips the channel, putting it on Good Morning America. The headline under the female anchor reads, “The King of Rock Takes a Queen.” The screen behind her is filled with a picture of Ten.
“In a shocking move that broke millions of hearts around the world, Tennessee King got married last night in a quickie wedding at the Palisades Hotel and Casino. And yes, Elvis even officiated.”
“Viva Las Vegas, right?” her smarmy co-host says.
No. No, no, no, no, no. Please tell me I didn’t get married last night. Please tell me I didn’t marry a total stranger.
My stomach sinks as I look down at my left hand, at the delicate eternity band sitting on my ring finger.
It feels like someone pulled the rug out from under me. I sink into the plush chair beside me, stunned, as they cut to a video of us during the ceremony.
A ceremony I don’t even remember.
We were obviously drunk as we said our vows, but we seem to have meant them. The look he gave me…it triggers something from the night before, and pieces come flooding back to me.
The way he kissed me. The sweet, yet filthy words he whispered in my ear as he moved inside me. The way he held me as we fell asleep, like I was something precious that needed to be protected.
I look at the ring again, trying to remember more.
Nothing comes.
When I look at Ten, his eyes are already on me. Brows furrowed, he stares at me like it’s the first time he’s truly seeing me this morning.
I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He looks pissed. Or maybe he’s just as confused as I am.
Well, he can’t be just as confused as I am, because I have no idea why this is even newsworthy. I mean, he’s obviously famous if the news is covering his wedding, but I still have no clue who this guy is.
Other than my husband, of course.
My eyes squeeze shut at the little reminder before I glance back at the TV. It’s playing concert footage from the night before last.
Apparently he’s the lead singer of a band. Kings + Thieves, according to GMA.
As I sit here watching the trainwreck that is my life unfolding on the TV screen, I absently realize I’ve heard that song before. It’s good.
You know what’s not good? When they cut to a picture of my Instagram feed.
“So who is Tennessee’s mystery bride?” the co-host asks. “We haven’t heard much about her. We certainly haven’t seen them together before last night.”
Oh, shit.
My stomach tangles into knots as the woman onscreen smirks.
“It seems that—in typical rock ’n roll fashion—Tennessee King got hitched to an, um, exotic dancer.”
“She’s a stripper?” her co-host asks gleefully.
Tears sting my eyes as both men in the room turn to look at me. Their judgment, although silent, is heavy and oppressive. I can practically hear all the nasty little thoughts going on inside their heads.
I’m almost relieved when my phone vibrates in my purse, until I realize it’s probably my mom, wondering where I am. Shit, she’s probably wondering who I am at this point. She has to know by now that I lied to her, and I’m not a cocktail waitress at Caesar’s Palace.
She has to know by now that her daughter’s a whore.