7. Kurt

When I see my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I startle at the sheer mess that is my face and barely refrain from shrieking. "Oh, fuck no," I hiss. "You look like nasty chewed-up gum on the bottom of a shoe."

My ears burn red, and I start to sweat. Here I am with a dreamboat of a man, and I look like hell sent me back because I was too messed up for admission.

Speaking of that warm place … what the hell have I done?

I groan and drag my hands down my cheeks. I've jettisoned my political dreams to outer space. Pretty sure that a wannabe politician who woke up in Vegas married to his favorite porn star is not a candidate the average voter will embrace wholeheartedly. Before, the only thing marring my goody-two-shoes image was having been dumped by a safe, sensible boyfriend for the most famous pop star in the world. How much more of a fall from grace can I have in one night?

I don't want to answer that question.

Moreover, given that my momther's planning on running for president, she'll likely have a valid opinion on her only son drunk-marrying a guy whose job includes fucking naked men wearing ball gags or cock cages (or both) on camera. And I don't want to hear that valid opinion.

My chest caves, and my chin dips down. I sigh. I take care of business, wash my face with the hotel soap, and swipe some toothpaste from a tube sticking out of a Dopp kit, using my finger to clean my mouth while my mind spins out of orbit.

Fuuuuck. I need to come up with a way to get out of this.But now that I'm thinking about it, if we annul this thing or get a quickie divorce, and then somehow word gets out about the marriage—which, let's face it, oppo research is going to make sure happens—would I seem even more flighty? Maybe I need to stay married.

That might not be a hardship, because let's not ignore the fact that my new husband is, after all, my absolute favorite porn star. Maybe there's a plus hidden here.

If he's into me, that is. I'd never force myself on him. But if he doesn't object, then could there be an upside? Not that my queasy body wants any form of sex at the moment.

He seemed to like me last night, though. I think? As I set myself to rights, slipping on my tuxedo shirt so I'm at least sort of covered, bits and pieces of the night that Johnny and I spent with each other come to me in shards, like a kaleidoscope. A glimpse of clinking my glass to his in a bar. Listening to a tribute band downtown. Lyft rides. Kissing. There might be a coherent picture, maybe, if I twist it … Nope, it's gone.

There's no doubt I've fucked things up more than usual. Can I win the election if I stay married? Can my momther?

Or have I tanked two political careers with one careless night?

After I down several handfuls of water from the sink, I start to feel less like a desiccated corpse and more like a simply damaged human being. My hair appears to be a lost cause, but there are worse things—like being cruel on the inside.

Do I have more of a rebellious streak than I've ever let out to play? Because while I've led a pretty boring life in my adult years, get me smashed one night, and I've taken off all my clothes, put a lampshade on my head, and danced the Macarena.

Or, you know, drunk-married a porn star.

I glance down at my ring finger again.

What the hell did I do? Rather, I know the what, but the why is an open question, other than that marrying my porn star crush apparently seemed like an outstanding idea to my extremely intoxicated self.

Who lets drunk people get married, anyway?

I answer my own question: How many people who get married in Vegas are completely sober? I'd wager not that many, and it's not like they administer a breathalyzer before you say "I do."

Time to face my … husband.

I can't deny that the word sends a thrill through me. My drunk self wanted him, but I'm pretty sure my sober self wants him more.

I open the Dopp kit to put the toothpaste back and—slightly more awake, now that I've hydrated a bit—notice bottles and bottles of medication in transparent orange containers with white tops. It's none of my business, but is Johnny sick? This seems excessive.

I take a closer look. They're all the same prescription: eight full bottles of sleeping pills.

While I don't always follow my gut, I've learned the hard way not to ignore my intuition, and it's pinging loudly right now. Because I'm pretty sure this is a problem. Abuse or …

Dizziness washes over me, and I start rocking, because no, fuck no. No no no.

Images from seventeen years ago flash through my brain. Fuck, no. Not again.

I can't let this happen to another person if I have the ability to stop it.

I shake my head and try to evaluate the situation logically. Maybe Johnny's … sick.

But no one needs this many sleeping pills. I turn the bottles around and read the labels carefully. The dates they were filled are a month apart. Like he's been hoarding the medication.

Am I wrong?

I can't be wrong again.

It's none of my business … but how many people have silently cried out for help and gotten no answer because they've kept things private that needed to be discussed?

Johnny might hate me for what I'm about to do, because it's nosy AF, but I can justify it in a number of ways. I discovered the pills by accident, I'm curious, and he's my damn husband.

Most importantly, though, I'm not going to fuck up by missing signals again. I don't know how I could've prevented what Andrei did, but that hasn't stopped me from wishing I had every single day for the past seventeen years.

If Johnny needs help, I'll help him. Even if he doesn't want it. More important to stop him and risk being out of line than to stay quiet and wish I'd said something.

If I'm wrong … god, I hope I'm wrong. I'll gladly take that outcome over the alternative.

I take a deep breath and open the bathroom door.

"Hey, Johnny?" I ask, walking out wearing a tux shirt and no pants, holding up three orange bottles of pills. "Are you feeling okay?"

He's sitting on the couch looking out the window. When he sees what I'm carrying, his bare shoulders stiffen. I don't lose eye contact with him, even though I'd normally be distracted by his pecs.

Finally, after a moment, he says, "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Then why do you have eight full bottles of"—I say the name of the drug, trying not to let my shaky hands rattle the containers.

He glares at me, crossing his arms over his chest, making it harder to not look at it. "That's really none of your business."

I set the bottles on the bed. My phone buzzes on the table, and I ignore it. My pulse is pounding in my ears. "I know it isn't. But I … I couldn't live with myself if those pills were … I know this is awkward, and it's not my place. I didn't mean to pry. I just … It seems weird that you have them. Because aren't those for sleeping? Why do you need so many?"

Johnny sighs and bites his lip. Then he startles and says, "Shit," and grabs his phone. He swipes and scrolls, then clicks a few things, and his shoulders relax back down.

"You okay there?" I ask.

He nods.

Not a good answer. I'm pushing him. If he has some kind of prescription drug problem, well, since he's my husband, don't I have the right to know? Even in this fucked-up situation?

My phone buzzes again. I ignore it again, figuring it's better to run roughshod over things that aren't my business than have someone end up overdosing. "Johnny, we don't know each other, but maybe that could make it easier for you to talk to me. Why do you have so many sleeping pills?"

Johnny gives me a hard stare. I think he's debating whether or not he's going to open up to me. He's really got no reason to. Finally, he seems to come to a decision. His next words are quiet, and his eyes are full of pain. "I was going to take those last night."

"A dose?" I ask, my brows furrowing.

"All of them."

My knees buckle, and my stomach plummets to the ground floor of this high-rise hotel. "Two hundred and forty pills?" I whisper. "That's enough to kill a horse." My phone sounds insistently, and I pick it up with a huff, silencing it. "Fuck, not now."

Johnny's voice is raspy. "I'm not as big as a horse, but yeah, that's the idea."

No. Absolutely not.

No wonder he was treating last night like the last night of his life. Because in his mind, it was.

Fuck.

I'm going to hyperventilate.

Paige, my campaign manager, is texting me. I hit ignore again and try to control my breathing, when really I want to let out a primal scream. I pad over to Johnny and gingerly sit down next to him on the couch, feeling like he's a bomb about to go off. I want to comfort him, but would he let me?

Does it matter, though? Because even if he doesn't want anything to do with me, I don't care.

Johnny Haskell's not killing himself on my watch. Not now. Not ever.

And, if I'm being honest, this isn't only for his sake.

I can't go through another suicide.

I'm sweating, and I squeeze my eyes shut, seeing black spots. "Why?" I whisper, opening my eyes to study him.

He sits staring at his hands for a long time. Then he looks up at me. "My mama's on dialysis. She needs new kidneys. But her insurance company denied coverage, even though she was on the transplant list. So I found someone … I found a supplier, so she won't have to wait on the list again. And my life insurance is enough to pay for it all."

"You were going to kill yourself so your mom could live," I say flatly, not entirely believing him. But everything about him exudes sincerity. "On the night you got a lifetime achievement award," I add, one more fragment of memory coming clear.

He nods, his eyes empty and sad.

This changes everything.