He grabbed a battered black leather jacket off the floor, the one I’d apparently been using as a pillow. My gaze darted to his face and he gave me a sly, knowing smile. Even my monster hangover couldn’t detract from the view.Īnd I was ogling him. They sat invitingly low on his h*ps and fit in all the right ways. He wore just a pair of jeans, some scuffed black boots, a couple of small silver earrings, and a loose white bandage on his forearm. But this beautiful man easily had me beat for skin on show. It had been a daring choice for me on account of the way it barely contained my abundance of boobage. I still had on the pretty, dirty white dress Lauren had talked me into. A black bird had been inked into the side of his neck, the tip of its wing reaching up behind his ear. Tattoos covered the entirety of one arm and half his bare chest. Even with the tired red tinge they were a thing of beauty.
I’d have swooned perfectly fine without them. He had long, dark hair falling past his shoulders and sideburns. He looked to be in his mid-to-late twenties-a man, not a boy. He was built and beautiful and strangely familiar.
I slapped a hand over my mouth because my breath had to be hideous. I opened my eyes and sat up, pushing my greasy blonde hair aside. “Are you going to be sick again?” he asked. My poor broken body stirred in the strangest of places.
A shiver went through me despite my pain. “You okay?” a voice enquired, male, deep, and nice. Sweet baby Jesus, what had I been thinking to drink so much? I groaned and even that made my head pound. I just wanted to crawl into a ball and die. Bad things happened here, terrible things. Then BANG!Ī whole line of shot glasses with lemon and salt on the side.Įverything I’d heard about Vegas was true. I'd been dancing with Lauren and talking to some guy. What the hell had happened last night? The last thing I remembered was the countdown to midnight and the thrill of turning twenty-one, legal at last. My mouth felt like garbage and tasted worse.
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