I groan, my mouth tacky, and my face crusted against a pile of dried beer and drool. I've had hangovers in the past, I think, but this one might kill me. There's a thumping in my head, that feels like someone took a sledgehammer to my skull, and the only mercy is that wherever the hell I am, the lights are low.
Daring to open my eyes, I wince. My throat feels raw, like I swallowed sandpaper. I cough and roll onto my stomach, swallowing a shout as the skin on my back rips away from the leather couch.
Holy shit, that hurt.
That must be how it feels to get waxed. I frown as I run my hand over my back to ease the stinging, with a newfound respect for every Brazilian waxed pussy I've had the pleasure of licking.
With a sigh, I close my eyes and faceplant into the sofa. I try to think back to last night, but it’s all pretty fuzzy. There are moments I recall—it was Mason's birthday party. Flashing black Amex cards. Downing expensive whiskey straight from the bottle. And women. Plenty of women. It sounds like a pretty standard celebration with the guys to be honest, but I usually end up back in my own bed, instead of passed out… wherever the hell I am.
I carefully, cautiously, push myself upright, groaning as the pounding in my skull increases tenfold. I shiver and rub my naked arms as the vent in the ceiling thrusts cold air in my direction. I have no idea where my shirt is. I probably lost it on a dare. Or Jake stole it because he's stupid like that.
My stomach itches and I frown, reaching down to inspect the cause. It's a slip of paper, half stuck to me with a thick smear of lipstick—at least I hope that’s what it is. There are words on it, but they're swirling around, out of focus. I squint, trying to make sense of what's in front of me until the letters eventually form a sentence in the vague shape of Jake's handwriting. I shift, feeling uneasy, because anything Jake felt was important enough to leave me a note about isn't going to be good.
Good Luck, you’ll need it. And next time, don't be such a lightweight. You're lucky I didn't draw a dick on your face.
I scowl and touch my face because knowing Jake, that's something he would do.
Good luck for what?
Confused, I lower the note and look around, my surroundings slowly becoming familiar. I'm in the VIP room at my friend Jax’s club, in the same wide booth where I insisted on taking shots with those sexy Swedish twins. I sigh, relieved that at least some things are coming back to me.
Something on the table catches my eye, so I lean forward to grab it. It looks like a contract, scrawled out in Jake’s messy handwriting on the back of an old drinks invoice. My heart pounds as I read through the mass of words.
The following agreement is made between Ben Tyler (First Party) and Jacob Thatcher (Second Party), on the day of [Sunday, October 18th, 2020]. The First Party agrees that he will find a woman to marry him without the promise of financial benefit within seven (7) days of this agreement being made.
My eyes widen, and I shake my head in disbelief.
There's no way I’d sign something like this.
Flashes come at me amid a blur of bright lights and pulsing music. Jake's arm wrapped around my shoulder. He’s shouting at me as I scan the crowd, searching for a woman to entertain me for the night. I catch one of the twins’ gaze and nod for them to join me. She lifts her eyebrows, then smiles as I wave my black Amex at the barman.
“It’s amazing what a little cash can buy,” Jake’s voice grated my ears.
“You mean a few shots for my new friends?”
“Sure,” Jake grinned at me. “If that’s what you wanna call it. I’m sure the girls hang off you because of your dazzling personality, and nothing to do with your billion-dollar company.”
“This is coming from the guy who couldn't even get a girl if he paid her.”
“And you think you could?” Jake chortled. “Take away all the cards and the money, and you still think you'd have a chance?”
“I know I would,” I replied, flashing him my million-dollar smile. “And I’ll prove it to you.”
My fists clench as I pre-empt what’s coming. Jake and I have always