I open my eyes.
Well, eye. One refuses to cooperate.
I see a leg. A tit. An arm.
They're all splayed together.
Where the fuck am I?
Oh, right. I'm at Jasmine's. Well, Damien's.
Holy fuck.
I'm not sure where Jasmine ends and Isabella begins.
I laugh.
For some reason the bed makes me think of an assorted box of Lindt truffles. Dark chocolate, milk chocolate, and white chocolate.
I chuckle to myself.
I try to move my arm.
A searing pain erupts behind my left eye when I do so.
Fuck.
It's going to be a long day, isn't it?
I turn to my left. The room spins a little.
Oh fuck no, not the spins. Please God no, not the spins.
I hate the fucking spins!
That's it. I'm never drinking again.
I swear.
Hey, I'm enjoying all this free-flowing fucking shit, not gonna lie.
But Damien... oh, Damien. I want you. I want to free you. You're helping me to get free, I want to free you.
I close my eyes, losing myself in his chest tattoos.
* * *
"Helllllloooooo!" says a big feminine voice with masculine undertones.
I open my eyes.
"Wakey wakey sunshine!" says Jasmine, looking down at me.
Wait a sec. I was just looking at her and Iz all splayed together. Now suddenly I'm the only one on the bed.
How the fuck did that happen?
"Yo, sleepy-head! It's eleven fucking o'clock!" says Jasmine.
I sit up.
The room spins a little, but rights itself. I feel some bile about to launch from my stomach, but it too stays down.
"Drink this," says Isabella, appearing from nowhere with a glass of fizzy liquid in her hand.
Isabella and I have been here before. She knows Alka-Seltzer and I have a love-hate relationship. I hate it, but after I drink it down I love it. Because it magically makes me feel better.
I take the glass and wolf it down, passing through the hate phase.
"Klarrrrgh!" I say after it's down.
"You don't hold your alcohol very well, do you?" says Jasmine.
"I had seven fucking vodkas," I say.
Jasmine looks at Isabella.
"Seven?" says Isabella. "She's a four-and-done girl usually."
Both are dressed for the day. Jasmine is in a spectacular yellow dress with a big yellow flower in her hair. Yellow shoes.
Isabella is in one of her perky ass white shorts with a neon pink half tee. Leather sandals.
Head pounding, I find the shower and bask in the cool water. I spend a little too long in there.
It's noon by the time I'm out. Isabella sits alone at the countertop. She's reading something on her iPhone.
"Where's Jasmine?" I say.
"She had some work to do," says Isabella. "Something about a firewall breach."
"Oh, yeah. She got a text about that last night. Jasmine said Damien has a ton of girls' clothes here somewhere." I gesture at my naked body. "I think I need something."
"Been there," says Isabella, getting up. "I know where it is. I'll show you."
A little pang of jealousy snaps through my head. Isabella knows Damien's house better than me. Well, Jasmine's side of it anyway. I slap the thought away, reminding myself we're all in this weird but sexy relationship together.
"So are you just hanging around waiting for Jasmine?" I say as she opens the door into the Spanish-style medieval hallway.
"No," says Isabella, "I'm waiting around for you, actually. I thought maybe we could spend the afternoon together... talking. I need someone to talk to."
"Sure," I say, touching her arm as we walk. "You bet."
Isabella leads me down the stairs and to the end of a hallway. The wall sconces flicker almost like they're real candles. I half expect Kenneth Branagh and Emma Thompson to pass us reciting witty banter in iambic pentameter. We end up at an old wooden door. Isabella opens it. We walk in.
My eyes almost pop out of my head.
No shit, it really looks like a Forever 21 store. Jasmine wasn't kidding. Lighting, racks, and displays. Even better. A more varied selection. But no price tags.
I think I'm in heaven.
"Holy shit!" I say.
"When you're Damien Cage," says Isabella, "it helps to have all this on hand. You never know when a pack of hotties will show up and somehow lose their clothes."
I pick out a cute bow print bra, lacey boyshorts, a paisley floral top, and a pair of mineral-washed denim cutoffs. Thirty minutes later, I'm my usual pseudo-hot hipster chic and we're in Isabella's Porsche Cayman S heading to SoBe.
"Hangover cure?" says Isabella.
"You know it," I say.
There is nothing... and I mean nothing... that fixes a hangover better than Checkers.
I know it's terrible for you. But something about the grease makes the world right, I dunno.
"I've got a problem," says Isabella as she bites into her Checkerburger with Cheese. We're in the parking lot directly across from the Hilton.