I rub my eyes and fish around for my pants. Where the fuck are my pants? I spot them flung across the room, decorating the lampshade. My aim last night was either awesome or for shit.
“Okay, hold on. I remember you,” I grumble, running a hand through my hair. It’s coming back to me, slowly and in a blur. I snap my fingers. “Jenny!”
“Julia,” she corrects. She sighs, loses her sense of modesty, and drops the sheet. And as freaked out as I am right now, I appreciate the view.
She runs around the room collecting her clothes. What do I do? Look away, not look away? What’s the best option here? I think I should avert my eyes, though when she bends over, I find it hard to tear my gaze away from that fantastic ass. Hell, I’m only human. And there’s something drawing my attention—oh shit. My eyebrows shoot up.
“You got a tattoo,” I say.
“Huh?” She cranes her neck to look over her shoulder, but she can’t glimpse what I’m seeing: a weird looking blue box, planted right on the small of her back.
“What is that thing?” I ask as she runs to the closet door mirror and turns around.
She sees it now, and curses. The ink looks fresh, and there’s a plastic wrap pasted to her skin that’s halfway falling off. She must’ve gotten it last night. I can’t help grinning. People make shitty choices in Vegas.
“I did it. I actually got the TARDIS on my ass,” she whispers, looking horrified.
Tortoise? What?
“A TARD-ASS, if you will.” She giggles a little. Then the woman—Julia—stops and looks at me quizzically. “Wait. Get up and turn around.”
My smile evaporates. Oh, shit. I wondered what that tingling feeling on my lower back was. I get out of bed—treating her to a full show—and check myself in the bathroom door’s mirror.
Fuck me. Some weird black symbol, right above my ass.
“What is it?” I grunt. “Chinese?”
She scoffs at my ignorance. “No, doofus. It’s the rebel alliance symbol from Star Wars.”
Holy shit. I’ve been branded a nerd.
Okay, keep calm. You can still make partner with this. At least it’s not on your forehead. Oh my God.
“What the hell did we do last night?” I say.
Be calm. I need to be calm right now, because Julia seems to be starting to hyperventilate with laughter at my tattoo. God, that’s annoying.
There it is, a twinge of recognition—this woman annoys me.
“You want to knock it off?” I say. She puts her hands up and gets herself under control.
“Okay, last night. All I know is there were shots. Shots everywhere. On everything.” She groans and rubs her face. “Probably mostly tequila. My mouth tastes like a whorehouse in Tijuana. Speaking of, do you have any more shots?”
“Of what?” I grunt. She shrugs in response.
“Of booze? I think a little hair of the dog would help right now. Or maybe the whole damn dog.” She blinks and screws up her face. “I’ve had some hangovers in my time, but Jesus.”
She’s not wrong. My own head feels like someone’s pounding to be let out. Like they left their keys outside my skull, and they need to get them right the fuck now.
“Check the kitchen. There should be a bottle of champagne at all times. Like I ordered.” I take a deep breath. This is fine. Mostly. I’m just naked with a stranger, sporting an ass tattoo, and my maybe-probably hook-up is a morning drinker.
Vegas does shitty things to you.
“Ooh, constant champagne? Fancy. Dom Perignon? I don’t settle for anything else.” She bats her eyelashes at me, over-the-top flirtatious.
And I can’t help it. I laugh. And that gives me a fucking migraine.
“If I were you, I’d settle for a cup of coffee and some Excedrin,” I say, rubbing my head.
“Breakfast of champions. Do you always treat your dates this way?” she drawls, finally wriggling into her black lace panties. I try not to watch that little dance, because my cock is perking up and I don’t need this right now.
“You’re not my date.” I think my skull is about to start melting. I haven’t been hungover like this since sophomore year.
She juts her chin out. “You know, you are definitely the type of guy to completely fuck up an easy score. I mean, a naked woman in your bed? Most guys would be turning on the charm like—” Then she snaps her fingers, a wild light in her eyes. “I got it! Nate! That’s your name.”
“You win the door prize.” I grab my pants from off the lamp.
I can’t help but notice that Julia’s eyes track down my body. She thoughtfully bites her lip—maybe she likes what she sees. I’m a little tempted to turn around, give her a full frontal show. Again, my cock’s at the ready. Fucking stop it, dude. But curvy redheads were always one of my weaknesses. Even when they’re insulting me.
“So. We both must have been crazy bombed last night, right?” Julia says. Her cheeks tinge pink. “Because I’m not really the type of person to wake up all The Lost Weekend, you know?”
“Don’t worry about it. As far as either of us is concerned, this never happened.” Whatever did happen, that is. I kind of want to ask if she remembers, but I also don’t really want to find out.