I remember her kissing me.
Shit. That I damn well remember. I remember her lips on mine, her arms wrapped around my neck, and my hands on her body. There are flashes of laugher, and that smile, and the flick of fire in her eyes.
In the limo? I’m frowning, trying to think past the kiss to the surrounding and see if I can grab at more of my night.
Yeah, we kissed in the limo alright - that much is coming back to me. The limo and the private booth of that fourth club we went to. And then the limo again, followed by the hotel lobby, and the elevator, and I feel like I remember something about the suite’s couch, followed by-
Aww, shit.
And it’s then that I realize I’m buck naked in the bed.
I sit bolt upright, my hands clutching at my pounding head as I glance across the destruction of the bedroom - at the knocked-over lamp, the empty bottles of champagne-
…Her panties laying on the floor next to the bed, and right next to them, like a final damning piece of evidence is a ripped-open box of condoms.
Oh holy fucking shit.
I got had.
It might sound like a shitty first assumption, but it’s spelled out as clear as can be. I’ve heard this story before, from dozens of other high-profile players. I’ve seen this played out before in a hundred tabloid stories. The mysterious girl who seems too good to be true who just “happens” to fall into the rich young sports star’s lap. The coy remarks, the alluding to needing rescuing, followed by the drinks and the drugs, until you wake up with an eighteen-year financial commitment to a girl you don’t even know.
It’s the classic gold-digger scenario, and I fucking swallowed the whole thing - hook, line, and sinker.
And now I’m sunk.
Goddamnit, what was I thinking? A fake marriage? To a girl I met while drunk in a hotel bar? To a girl who I can see now obviously played me like a fucking chump with that whole damsel in distress shit, and the kiss at the elevator, and that little scene she staged in the lobby the next morning?
Yeah, she probably saw me coming a mile away. She probable heard my conversation with Derek in the bar and saw a golden fucking meal ticket.
Where is she.
The bed is empty, although it’s still actually warm when I place my hand on the sheets. I stagger to my feet, feeling the room spin around me as the contents of my stomach churn.
Jesus, I might still be a little drunk.
I grab for a pair of boxers from the floor, slipping them on as I hold onto the wall for support. I’m blinking sawdust and regret out of my eyes when I look up, and suddenly, I spy her, sitting out on the balcony.
I frown.
Yeah, I’m gonna set this straight right now. I’m gonna give her a piece of my damn mind… if I can even speak right now, that is.
I stumble towards the sliding door, ready for whatever speech she’s dreamed up. Hell, I wonder if she’s “already late,” I mean, I’ve heard the horror stories.
The sliding door slams open as I stagger out, and I’m opening my mouth to say all sorts of horrible shit to this little gold digger, when she suddenly turns.
And she’s crying.
Wait, what?
“Hey, uh-”
She whirls back away from me, wiping her eyes and sniffling, and all at once, all my bravado and my righteousness shatters away.
“Go away,” she mutters out, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands.
I swallow, running my hand through my hair and letting my fingers massage my aching temples. “Look, are you okay?”
She whirls back to me suddenly, fury on her face. “You’re a real piece of shit, you know!”
I blink at her outburst, frowning as I shake my head. “Excuse me? Says the girl that just fucking used me?”
She barks out a humorous laugh. “I didn’t use you, you asshole! You’re the one that got me drunk, and- and-”
“Whooooaa, hang on now.”
I hold my hands up, shaking my head.
“That is not how last night went down, and I think you damn well know that.”
Her face falls as her shoulders slump. “I- I don’t know how last night happened.”
The tension seems to drop out from between us as we both sag under the weight of our hangovers - her slumped into the chair, me easing back against the sliding door.
“Look, I don’t think we- uh, you know.” I clear my throat. “I don’t think we fucked.”
She wrinkles her brow, like I just fed her a lemon, and shakes her head. “Do you remember?”
“Not really.”
She groans, dropping her face into her hands. “Then what on earth makes you think that?”
Blind hope? Desperate optimism?
“Wait, hang on.”
The thought hits me suddenly, and I’m quickly ducking back inside and stumbling for the box of condoms. I snatch it off the floor, and I’m tearing the rest of the top off as I frantically start to count the contents.