Play Maker(72)

So when I wake up slowly from a dream about having a round, sexy ass pressed up against my morning wood, I’m happy to languish. What man wouldn’t? It’d felt so real.

Turns out it felt real because it was real. And when I snap back to consciousness and find myself face to face with a pair of enormous blue eyes and a tangled mane of strawberry blonde hair, I realize I don’t know where the hell I am or who the hell I’m with.

Focus, Nate. And do it fast, because she looks like she’s about to start screaming.

First part comes back easy. I’m in the Bellagio hotel, Las Vegas, in a damn sweet, well, suite. Top floor, corner penthouse, killer view of the Strip at night. No, I’m not rolling in money, though I’m certainly not hurting for cash. I’ve guided enough high profile billionaires through painless divorce settlements that it gets me a few perks. Like free Vegas hotels whenever I feel like it.

Okay. We’re in the hotel. That’s clear to me.

But the strawberry blonde with the increasingly terrified blue eyes? That one’s not so clear. And I don’t like it when I don’t know the answer to a very important question.

So take it easy, Nate. Proceed with caution. Maybe start with—

“What the hell?”

Okay, not the most eloquent, but can you f*cking blame me?

The woman twists around and falls off the bed. Shit. I sit up at once and discover that I’m completely naked. Great. So is she.

“Are you okay?” I ask, leaning over the bed. She looks up at me, blinking herself awake, and pushes her curls out of her face.

“What am I doing here?” she snaps, clutching the sheets to cover her (ample) breasts as she gets up off the floor. Which leads to question three.

“Why are you naked?” I say.

“Why are you naked?”

“It’s my bed.” Yes! Pwned by logic. I’m doing pretty good so far, considering my erection is still at half mast.

I rub my eyes and fish around for my pants. Where the f*ck are my pants? I spot them flung across the room, decorating the lampshade. My aim last night was either awesome or for shit.

“Okay, hold on. I remember you,” I grumble, running a hand through my hair. It’s coming back to me, slowly and in a blur. I snap my fingers. “Jenny!”

“Julia,” she corrects. She sighs, loses her sense of modesty, and drops the sheet. And as freaked out as I am right now, I appreciate the view.

She runs around the room collecting her clothes. What do I do? Look away, not look away? What’s the best option here? I think I should avert my eyes, though when she bends over, I find it hard to tear my gaze away from that that fantastic ass. Hell, I’m only human. And there’s something drawing my attention—oh shit. My eyebrows shoot up.

“You got a tattoo,” I say.

“Huh?” She cranes her neck to look over her shoulder, but she can’t glimpse what I’m seeing: a weird looking blue box, planted right on the small of her back.

“What is that thing?” I ask as she runs to the closet door mirror and turns around.

She sees it now, and curses. The ink looks fresh, and there’s a plastic wrap pasted to her skin that’s halfway falling off. She must’ve gotten it last night. I can’t help grinning. People make shitty choices in Vegas.

“I did it. I actually got the TARDIS on my ass,” she whispers, looking horrified.

Tortoise? What?

“A TARD-ASS, if you will.” She giggles a little. Then the woman—Julia—stops and looks at me quizzically. “Wait. Get up and turn around.”

My smile evaporates. Oh, shit. I wondered what that tingling feeling on my lower back was. I get out of bed—treating her to a full show—and check myself in the bathroom door’s mirror.

Fuck me. Some weird black symbol, right above my ass.

“What is it?” I grunt. “Chinese?”

She scoffs at my ignorance. “No, doofus. It’s the rebel alliance symbol from Star Wars.”

Holy shit. I’ve been branded a nerd.

Okay, keep calm. You can still make partner with this. At least it’s not on your forehead. Oh my God.

“What the hell did we do last night?” I say.

Be calm. I need to be calm right now, because Julia seems to be starting to hyperventilate with laughter at my tattoo. God, that’s annoying.

There it is, a twinge of recognition—this woman annoys me.

“You want to knock it off?” I say. She puts her hands up and gets herself under control.

“Okay, last night. All I know is there were shots. Shots everywhere. On everything.” She groans and rubs her face. “Probably mostly tequila. My mouth tastes like a whorehouse in Tijuana. Speaking of, do you have any more shots?”

“Of what?” I grunt. She shrugs in response.

“Of booze? I think a little hair of the dog would help right now. Or maybe the whole damn dog.” She blinks and screws up her face. “I’ve had some hangovers in my time, but Jesus.”

She’s not wrong. My own head feels like someone’s pounding to be let out. Like they left their keys outside my skull, and they need to get them right the f*ck now.

“Check the kitchen. There should be a bottle of champagne at all times. Like I ordered.” I take a deep breath. This is fine. Mostly. I’m just naked with a stranger, sporting an ass tattoo, and my maybe-probably hook-up is a morning drinker.