Chapter One
Devlin
I squint, my eyeballs feeling like they’ve been rolled in the burning sand outside. The damn curtains aren’t completely shut. A thin beam of light is cutting through the dark like a cleaver, slicing into my brain.
Who forgot to close the curtains?
My head is pounding, making a worse ruckus than Cole banging on my drum set. A groan that sounds like a toad’s croak tears from my throat. My mouth feels drier than the midday Vegas air.
Finally, my vision adjusts to where I can see a hotel room. Not mine. Mine is a swanky suite with a piano.
What the fuck…?
This room has blood-red hearts stenciled all over the walls. The ceiling reads, Happy Honeymoon.
Honeymoon? I’m not even married, so there can’t be a honeymoon. Although…I’m not alone in bed. There’s a strawberry blonde curled up next to me.
That, at least, is par for the course. Axelrod just finished its latest world tour and every city has a hot chick or two I can sleep with.
What isn’t par for the course is that I still have clothes on.
So does that mean…?
Wait just a damn minute. My Batman shirt is pushed up almost to my chest, so that’s kind of a half-credit in the clothes department. And my pants are unbuckled and unzipped. In fact, my pants and underwear are stuck down to a couple of inches below my knees, like I got tired in the middle of getting undressed and gave up.
Shoes are still on…
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead. What the hell happened?
I remember drinking, hanging out with Killian, Max and Cole, then, to deal with the damned bet I’d lost, I went out to the Strip, and then…
…and then…
Shit gets fuzzy after that.
More precisely, last night is a blank, like somebody took an ax to my memory and chopped it off.
Damn it. Not good. Not good at all. I try not to lose control like this. Last time I did, some crazy chick made a video of us having sex. Thank God my legal team yanked it from YouTube within an hour of her uploading it and slapped her with a cease-and-desist demand so mean it made her cry.
But first things first.
I reach over and grab a bottle of water from the nightstand. I rip off the tag the hotel put around its neck, twist the cap open and chug the whole thing down.
After a few moments, I start to feel marginally better. I climb out of bed and pull my pants and underwear up. I make my way to the bathroom but don’t turn the light on, since my eyes just can’t handle that much brightness right now.
Once I shut the door, it’s pitch-black. I almost trip over something and bang the hell out of my shin.
Cursing, I hit the switch on the swiveling magnifying mirror. A dim orange light illuminates the bathroom. I look down and see a bathrobe lying on the floor. Used bottles of body wash, shampoo and conditioner sit on the soap dish in the shower stall. So, the blonde showered last night. She should’ve hung the robe up instead of leaving it on the floor like a booby trap.
Annoyed, I kick the heavy terry cloth out of the way. It lands limply by the huge tub.
I take a leak, splash my face with cold water, then brush my teeth with the dental kit next to the sink to get rid of the gross, sour tang left from all the crap I drank yesterday. The toothpaste isn’t even close to enough, so I gargle with a mouthwash strong enough to sting my nose.
After downing another bottle of water, this time with some minibar aspirin, I feel reasonably human.
As I wait for the aspirin to work its pharmacological magic, I study the blonde who’s still curled up in sleep. Her face is buried in pillows, but the body’s definitely hot enough to be in my bed. She has nice curves, all gentle and sweet. I like women with generously sized tits and hips, since you might as well sleep with a guy otherwise. And she definitely has both, based on the outline. It’s too bad I can’t remember having fun with them.
Or maybe there was no fun to be had… my insidious mind whispers.
My throat dries for reasons that have nothing to do with last night’s overindulgence. Cold fingers of humiliation run down my back. Did I have another incident? Ever since the mind-blowing sex with Ms. Bad from New York six weeks ago, my dick has been having issues. It’s gone on fucking strike, refusing to rise to the occasion and do the one job it was created for.
Bastard. I couldn’t go to a specialist because it got hard when I thought about Ms. Bad. If I could get a replacement I would, just so I could enjoy the reliable erections I’m entitled to.
But then, as I trace the blonde’s curves with my eyes, blood starts to flow south…and…
Hey, look at that!
Boom! Hello, morning wood! How nice of you to show up after going AWOL for so long. How are you?
Well, I’m fine, thanks for asking. Sorry I’ve been missing for weeks. But I’m back and reporting for duty!
Well, well, well. So good of you to remember you have a job to do.