the first thing ciaran noticed when he woke up was that he was incredibly cold but drenched in sweat at the same time. the second thing? everything fucking hurt. he groaned. even his eyes hurt and he hadn’t even opened them yet. whatever room he was in was bright as shit. he attempted to move but found that something, an arm, held him by the waist. okay, so maybe this wasn’t a total shit show. memories surfaced in his mind, blurry and vague. he’d come to vegas with baxter. they went out last night to do the “vegas thing.” he sighed. they’d really done the “vegas thing,” apparently. ciaran didn’t even like “the hangover” movies (he couldn’t stand zach galifianakis.)
ah well. things could be worse. clearly, he’d had a blast last night since what he remembered was incredible. and, clearly, he’d gotten laid. he just hoped the girl whose breath tickled the back of his neck was at least half as hungover as he was, so he wouldn’t feel so self conscious. putting a hand over his face, he opened his eyes. they burned, but the gradual exposure to light kept it from being too painful. he was fairly certain he was at least mostly naked. the faces of strippers and too fine women being too interested came to mind. he had no cash, if the woman behind him was a prostitute, he’d have to ask baxter for the money.
he really hoped she wasn’t a prostitute. ciaran also really hoped she was at least pretty. it was one thing to have to ask your best friend to pay for your hooker, but it was another if she wasn’t even attractive. come to think of it, the arm over his waist felt thicker and heavier than a woman’s arm. eyes watering as he opened them, he touched the arm. his stomach dropped. the arm was hairy. he groaned again, shifting to roll over onto his back to see who had bat way out of her league. but, as he shifted his torso, his stomach roiled in protest. ciaran tore the sheets off his legs and ran to the bathroom.
the flush of the elegant toilet made his head pulse terribly. he went to the sink to rinse his mouth and look at himself in the mirror. the green tinge to his face clashed with his greasy red hair and his eyes were blood shot and glassy. what the fuck had happened last night? he raised his hand to push his hair out of his face and he caught a glint of gold. his stomach did another lurch and his blood went cold. on the third finger of his left hand sat a fat, gleaming wedding band.
the only thing he wore on this god awful morning was a wedding ring. “oh fuck,” he swore, diving for the toilet.
