Page 8 of Kiss Me Like You Mean It

‘Nico,’ the woman murmurs huskily, and that is the moment I go rock hard.

It’s also the moment I realise I’m in bed with Lee.

I freeze as she shifts again, but after several tense seconds tick by I know she’s still asleep, and it’s time to take stock of the situation.

What the ever living fuck happened last night? My brain gropes for memories that don’t seem to be there. Plus, thinking too hard seems only to intensify the blinding pain in my skull. Let’s start with something easier. Where am I?

Lifting my head is a Herculean task, but I manage it for long enough to take in my surroundings. This definitely isn’t my hotel room. This is an enormous, ridiculous suite – the kind that costs an astronomical amount of money, the kind they put Beyoncé up in. All the hideous daylight that is offending my abused corneas pours in from the huge windows that take up one whole wall of the bedroom. I can see the entire strip laid out below us like a children’s toy, a stream of tiny Matchbox cars marching along the busy streets.

The bed we’re in is the size of a small, private island, but that hasn’t made much difference because Lee and I are wrapped tightly around each other in the middle of it.

Lee.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I wince again, trying to pull gently away from her. My hand is resting on her stomach, and I can feel the warm silk of her skin under my fingertips, but there’s fabric, too, the soft cotton of a waistband. She’s wearing pyjamas.

Okay, she’s wearing pyjamas and I’m wearing my jeans. This could be perfectly innocent.

But try telling that to my dick, which doesn’t seem to have received the message that the body it’s responding to belongs to my best friend’s extraordinarily off-limits sister with whom I have a strictly platonic relationship.

I carefully untangle myself from Lee, and roll so that there are several inches of expensive, ten-thousand-thread-count sheet between us.

After that effort I need a bit of a rest again. Several minutes tick by as I screw my eyes shut and keep my body as still as possible. I remember the poker game in Frankie’s ‘back room’, which turned out to be a cushy private den, all mahogany and red silk and cigar smoke. I remember the way Lee sat serenely gathering in everyone’s chips and the way five retired gangsters grinned in approval. I remember the raucous storytelling, the drinks being passed around. So. Many. Drinks. I remember Lee and I heading to a different bar afterwards, and there being shots involved… shots that were on fire, maybe? And after that it’s pretty much a blank.

Just as I’m psyching myself up for an attempt to move, Lee sends me careening towards cardiac arrest by sitting straight up in the bed like a fucking vampire.

‘Nico?’ she whispers, blinking down at me as she clutches the sheets to her chest. She looks dazed, and there are panda smudges of mascara under her indigo blue eyes.

‘Oh my god,’ I rasp, my hand pressed over my heart, which seems to be trying to beat its way out of my chest. ‘Do you always wake up like that? I think I’m having palpitations. I might need medical attention.’

‘You’re here,’ she says as if I haven’t spoken. ‘You’re… in my bed.’ Her eyes widen. ‘Did we…’ Her gaze drops to my bare chest, where it lingers for a long moment. Her lips part in shock.

‘No!’ I say firmly, then I pull the sheets back to reveal my denim-clad legs. ‘I slept in my jeans. Like a gentleman.’

Lee doesn’t need to know that I spent the night wrapped around her like a fucking vine. That was sleeping Nico, I can’t be responsible for sleeping Nico. Awake Nico thinks of Lee purely as a friend. Awake Nico is very respectful. And very, very hungover.

‘Okay,’ Lee murmurs, and she looks down at her pyjamas, which I now see are covered in weirdly cheerful tropical fruits. She seems, somehow, to have buttoned herself into the top half back to front. Her hand goes to the backwards collar that threatens to strangle her. ‘Okay,’ she says again.

I rub my hands over my face. ‘I think I died,’ I croak finally. ‘I think I am dead right now. My whole body hurts.’

‘If you hurt, you’re probably not dead,’ Lee points out distantly. Her brow is creased as if she’s deep in thought.

‘Oh, yeah. Well, that’s good news, at least. Then again the cool embrace of the infinite void sounds pretty inviting right now.’

‘It’s too early for existential dread.’ Lee sinks back against the pillow, her face pale. ‘Or is it? What time is it?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘What happened last night?’ she asks after a moment.

‘It’s a bit… hazy,’ I admit.

‘Yeah.’ Lee nods, and then winces as if the movement was painful. ‘There was the champagne. And the cocktails. And the shots—’ she cuts herself off abruptly. ‘Oh god,’ she moans, before stumbling from the bed and in the direction of a door that I’m guessing leads to the bathroom. It slams shut behind her.

With a groan I roll over onto my side and then slowly, slowly pull myself up to a sitting position. My feet hit the floor and I hiss out a long breath. The clock on the bedside table says 12:34 and I stare at it for a moment, trying to remember what numbers are and how time works. I haul myself to my feet and shuffle towards the bathroom like an elderly man.

I’m thirty-eight years old. I should not be waking up this hungover in Vegas. These are lessons I learned many years ago when I was young and full of vigour. Then, I would have laughed this off and suggested we go for a morning hand of Blackjack and a cheeseburger. Now, a hangover like this one could end up putting me out of action for a week. I have to catch a flight in only a few hours, and the thought is monstrous.