Looking For Trouble

Chapte 7: Sentiment

CHAPTER 7

Arya Crawford

I opened my eyes to a dimly lit room. I knew it was morning because there were birds chirping outside and I really wanted them to put a sock in it.

The thick drapes were still drawn but streaks of sunlight seeped through the middle where the curtains met.

I felt the pressure mount like an inflated balloon inside my cranium. My mouth was dry and the dehydration had allowed a throbbing headache to take over. I groaned, waves of nausea adding to my misery. I felt like I had been hit by a bus.

I shifted under the thick duvet, hoping the cold white sheets I was splayed out on would offer some comfort to my flushed body. But no. There was no mercy, even for a first-timer. Here cometh the hangover.

First time I drink alcohol and I go overboard. Who'd have thought? Note the sarcasm.

I pushed myself up onto my forearms and looked down at the pillow I had had my face shoved into. The previously clean white canvas was now a replica of some godawful abstract painting you'd pay forty bucks to see at a museum, curtesy of the makeup on my face. I didn't even want to think about what I looked like, post makeup smearing.

My body's acid reflux kicked in and I felt the astringent backlash of last night's alcohol burning its way back up my oesophagus and throat. It was only a small burp but it left a stinging sensation in its wake, and the faint smell of stale Rosé on my breath had me cringing.

"Buongiorno."

Startled, I whipped around so fast I'm sure I heard my back crack. Won't be needing a chiropractor today, sir. Thank you.

The sudden movement had me wincing at the sharp pain that exploded in my head, and the dizziness only made me feel more nauseous. I sat up in the bed and squinted in the dim lighting, partially to focus and partially because the throbbing in my head was sensitive to light, towards where the voice had come from.

Across the room, a dark blue suit jacket and vest had been thrown onto the sofa. And at the foot of the very same sofa, on the carpeted floor, sat Carter Reynolds. Now stripped of his jacket and vest, his white dress shirt looked creased and his tie hung loosely around his collar, looking very devil-may-care. His dark hair was tousled and falling into his sleepy eyes, and he wore a tired smile.

What the hell was going on?

I clutched the duvet to my chest like a bad cliché, trying to recall the events of the previous night with a growing panic. But it was all a blur. I didn't remember much past crawling under the patio behind the reception hall, which was also incidentally around the time of my fourth drink. I had the distant memory of discussing...dicks. I couldn't remember with whom, but I vaguely remembered thinking a lot about dicks while I was drunk. Something about...eating a dick?

Wait. Is that why Carter was here? Oh my God. Did I suck his dick?!

A furious blush rose to my cheeks at the thought, and I could feel myself shake in alarm. I quietly scanned the room for anything that would jog my memory from last night. So, I could understand what this man was doing in my room.

There was a lamp knocked over on one of the side tables, and a white country club bathrobe on the carpeted floor. I glanced next to me on the king-sized bed to see that there was no sign of someone having slept on that side, except for one of the open toe stilettos I had been wearing yesterday. Why was there a shoe in bed with me?

Under the cover of the duvet, I felt around my legs and stomach to give myself physical proof that I wasn't naked. I was still wearing my bridesmaid dress.