Good Time(21)

I say a silent thank you to Jesus for making today a Sunday because it means I get to do the walk of shame through the hotel—the same hotel I work at—while bumping into as few co-workers as possible.

I left my car at home last night because I’d intended to ride Vince’s dick home from Double Diamonds, so I order an Uber in the elevator. Then I hold my head up high and glide straight through the lobby to the cab pickup line, waving hello to Henry in bellhop services and Renee working the concierge desk. Fuck ’em. This could be my church outfit, they don’t get to judge me.

Still, I breath a sigh of relief once I’m in the Uber. God, last night was fun. The most fun I’ve ever had. Obviously I’d left the house intent on having a good time, but you can’t plan a night like that. You can’t plan to laugh so hard you have to squeeze your legs together so you don’t pee. You can’t plan on tripping and nearly running into an Elvis impersonator riding a bicycle with a parrot on his shoulder, then getting pulled back in the nick of time by Vince as he says, “To hell with it,” and kisses you until you’re so breathless you’re not sure if it’s from your near-death experience or from his lips. You can’t plan on the slushies being available in foot-long penis-shaped containers. That’s just good luck.

You can’t know that stopping for a slice of pizza will result in triggering a memory of that Halloween party in college where you thought a raccoon was a cat. So you left the door of the frat house open for him, thinking how great it was that these guys had a frat-cat. But then the frat-cat nabbed a slice of pizza right out of the box and everyone flipped the fuck out because it was a frat-coon, not a frat-cat. The term ‘frat-coon’ makes everyone laugh even more than it did when you coined it the first time.



“I love how you make him laugh,” Canon says. I know he means Vince because we lost Lawson somewhere in the last round of drinks. It’s hard to keep track when you’re drinking. I think that saying is supposed to be about fun, not people, but honestly if you think about it it totally applies to people. They are really hard to keep track of in Vegas.

“How is he laughing though? Is it like ‘haha, I want to bang you’ or ‘haha, I think you’re a clown?’”

“He doesn’t think you’re a clown.”

“Canon Reeves, you are the best wingman ever.”

“That”—he points his beer at me—“is a fact. I really don’t get enough credit for it.”



You can’t know that Vince Rossi actually is a filthy dirty talker way, way, way out of your dirty-talking league and is in fact your kryptonite no matter what that word means. He’s it. All of it. Everything.



“I need you, Vince.”

“Do you? Is your pussy wet for me, Payton? Wet and needy and hungry for my cock?”

“It is, actually.”

“Maybe I’ll give it to you later.”

“Please.” I lean closer, breathing the word onto him. He is such a fucking tease.

“I like it when you beg.”

“Jesus. I’ll crawl on the floor and take off your belt with my teeth if that’s what you’re into.” That’s partially a lie. I have no idea how to undo a belt with my teeth.

“I’d rather see you face down on my bed, ass in the air with my come dripping down your thighs.”

Oh. Holy. Shit. Hollleeee shit.

“That would be fine,” I finally manage to agree as nonchalantly as possible.

“It’d be better than fine, I can promise you that.”



You can’t know that suggesting A, you get a tiger tattooed on your ass or B, you get married would result in ending the night with a husband. I mean I knew he liked my ass. Liked it so much he’d be willing to marry me to stop me from defiling it with a tiger tattoo? I had no idea.



“I Payton, take you, Vince, to be my lawfully wedded husband. Before these witnesses, I promise never to get a tiger tattooed onto my ass. Never, ever.”

“And?” Vince prompts.

Oh, yeah. “I vow that I have handed out my last golden ticket. Till death do us part.”



If I could have planned all of that I’d be the event planner of the century. That was more of an adrenaline-fueled, hormone-boosted, alcohol-driven happenstance.

Except that ‘happenstance’ is just another word for ‘coincidence.’ And we all know that ‘coincidence’ is simply a boring word for ‘fate,’ so maybe none of this is my fault. I’d be fine with that explanation, because I’m a reasonable person, but I don’t know enough about my new husband to know if he’ll agree.

My husband. Husband. It’s such a good word, isn’t it? Maybe this is why my mother has gotten married so many times? Maybe this is one of those things I can only appreciate about her as an adult? I mull it over for a second and decide it’s not and I don’t.

Then I’m home, the Uber coming to a stop in front of my apartment building so I can stop dwelling on stupid shit and start thinking about the real issues I’m facing. Namely, if I’m out of Cheez-Its or not. But it turns out I’ve got bigger issues because when I unlock my door I find Rhys standing in my kitchen.



Oh, Jesus Christ. Rhys and Lydia. I forgot all about Lydia losing her virginity while I was sidetracked getting married. I am the worst friend in the world. Also, I’ve not actually met Rhys before so this is awkward. Again, for him, not me. I’m not the one who can’t get off without paying for it. But still, you’d think I could meet one of these guys in a normal way.