18. Nat

The minute I open my eyes, I realize something is very wrong. For starters, I'm not at home. My mattress is lumpy whereas this one is softer than a cloud.

My head pounds like there are workmen inside my skull, drilling into concrete or mining for gold.

What the fuck did I drink last night? I try to focus but my memories are worryingly hazy. I recall downing cocktails with the girls, and conducting a thorough character assassination of a certain lifeguard, but beyond that?

It's a blank.

Light filters through pale gray blinds as I lie still with my eyes closed, rooting through fragments of memory. There's a mental snapshot of some hulking guys carrying my friends out of the bar, and I freeze.

Terror hits me like a bucket of cold water. Given the ominous path my research into the mayor has taken me, my mind starts working overtime, considering all the many - awful - reasons why two men would kidnap Jane and Amanda from a bar.

A petrified squeak falls from my lips and it's only when an arm snakes over my hip that I realize I'm not alone in this deliciously comfortable bed.

"How are you feeling," a low, seductive voice asks over my shoulder.

The knowledge that I've somehow ended up in bed with Max causes a massive freakout. Part of me wants to shoot out of bed, grab my stuff, and run. But the rest of me is far too hungover to move more than an inch. Although, a bathroom trip would be helpful at this point. My bladder urgently needs emptying.

"Like shit." An understatement.

Max sits up and the covers fall to his waist, revealing a deliciously muscular torso, all dips and hard lines. I'm momentarily rendered speechless.

"Here, take two of these and drink the whole glass."

He hands me water and painkillers. I'd thank him, but my mental faculties are currently offline. And likely to stay that way for at least a few hours.

With a gulp of water, I swallow the pills, but my throat is so dry that they stick in my esophagus, leaving a nasty gritty texture behind. It makes my stomach heave and for a horrible moment, I think I'm about to throw up.

Vomiting in a hot guy's bed is not on my current to-do list, so I take a few deep breaths and will my sensitive stomach to calm down. Eventually, the extreme nausea subsides and I manage a slow exhale.

"You need some food. It should help settle your stomach and soak up some of the alcohol."

I want to agree, but I'm not sure I can eat a bite. The bathroom situation feels a lot more urgent right now. Like critically urgent. If puking is a seriously bad idea, peeing in a man's bed would be infinitely worse. There's no way back from that one.

"Bathroom?" I manage to spit out while crossing my legs and praying for divine intervention.

"Through that door."

I can't wait. I have to pee.

Before my bladder gives up, I leap out of the bed and dash straight into the bathroom without a backward glance. I kick the door closed and dive onto the toilet with a sob of relief. Oh my god, that feels good.

Never have I needed to pee this badly.

Emptying my bladder feels like a religious experience at this point.

I flush and wash my hands. There are a few bottles of manly self-care products, but nothing to suggest a woman spends any time here. I don't know the guy so I shouldn't give a crap about his relationship status, but for some reason, I do care.

The thought of spending the night in bed with a guy who has a wife or girlfriend makes me uncomfortable. Even if nothing happened, it's still wrong.

One look in the huge mirror above the sink tells me what I already suspected.

I look like crap. My eyes are bloodshot and what's left of my eye makeup has turned me into a panda. With a sigh, I grab some tissue and do my best to wipe away the worst of the damage. There isn't a lot I can do about my red eyes, but at least my face is semi-clean now.

There's a hair elastic around my wrist so I drag my wayward hair up into a loose bun. The huge shower is tempting but the longer I delay leaving the bathroom, the harder it's going to be.

I'm going to have to face Max soon enough, so I may as well get over it now.

Did I have sex with Max? Fuck. If I did, I don't remember it. I don't feel like I had sex. And I'm pretty sure I'd feel something if we had.

With a quick motivational speech ringing in my head, I open the door and step back into the bedroom, and then sigh with relief when I realize Max has gone. My clothes are folded neatly on a chair, so I get dressed.

My phone battery is at 11% but that's OK. It's more than enough to call an Uber. I scroll down the screen to see if the girls have messaged me. But there's nothing. They must still be comatose.

Not surprising really. If my muddled memories are correct and they were carried out of the bar.

Speaking of which, I really need to ask Max about what the fuck happened last night.