What Happens In Vegas

Pain. Damn it, white hot in my skull. Why did I do it? Didn't I vow last week as I spewing my guts up from tequila that I was never going to drink again. That I was going to go straight edge. Wait, is that just for drugs? I've never in my life taken drugs. Accept that time I smelt weed when I was walking the dog. That was enough. I'm on the wagon. Or I was until last night. What even happened last night?

I tried to open my eyes but ended up squinting. Why didn't I close the bloody curtain? Did I really want everyone seeing my ass as I fell down into bed? I looked around. This definitely wasn't my hotel room. Mine was white and expensive with leather couches. This one was smaller with a lot of grey. Expensive grey, but grey none the less.

I fell right out of bed with my eyes closed to try and get myself together. Bad idea. Instead of walking I crawled. It seemed to hurt my head less. I came to a stop in a pile on the floor when I found my dress. Oh if my Gran could see me now. Not that she'd be shocked by me crawling on the floor, fighting the hangover of all hangovers wearing only my bra. I think. But my Alexander McQueen dress is lying forgotten on the floor. All crumpled and creased. She'd have a hissy fit.

My eyes shot open and I frantically started looking around the room. Phew. My shoes aren't lost or stolen. And I haven't given them away as a gift to someone while drunk, I've done that before. I gently picked up my shoes and dress and lay them on the couch. I saw a white waffle bathroom robe ready and hanging up. They probably knew I'd destroyed my Alexander McQueen dress and couldn't make it back to my hotel room. They just knew. Or that's what I'd like to think. I slipped on the robe and fell into a comfy armchair. I sighed and ran my fingers through my hair. But my hand got caught. How? I did a deep condition yesterday morning. Then it hit me.

Oh no. Oh, oh, oh no. Sitting on my wedding finger was a white gold band. Fuck. That woke me up. I stood and ran like a half shot deer back to the bed. In my hungover state why hadn't it hit me that there was a naked body lying next to me?! Am I stupid? Self obsessed? I'm dead. Lying on the bedside table under a used condom was a marriage certificate. I tried to read the name. Maybe this is all a mix up. He's just gotten married in Vegas, instantly regretted it and decided to hook up with some bimbo. Me being the bimbo. I couldn't see it, the condom was in the way. I scrunched up my face in disgust and picked up the thing, thanking God, Buddha or anyone up there that my mystery man had had the decency to at least tie the damn thing.

Then clear as crystal was my name. Violet Imogen Birchmier. And what was his? Michael Christopher Fuentes. Fun-tes? Fue-tes? Fue-n-tes? What kind of name is Fue-n-tes? He sounds awful already.

"Mghhhhhg." a noise sounded from the bed. This is the last thing I need. I can't have a husband! Gran will kill me. I mean sure she's used to me embarrassing her. After I set my sisters ball gown on fire at age nine I've been disappointing her. Whether it was throwing up over the Duke, crashing my dad's classic car or sneaking on someone's yacht, I've found a way. But this is different. This is marriage. I mean I'm engaged to Andrew. Oh Andrew.

Okay, this I can save! This will be no problem at all! We just have to get a divorce, me and this Fue-n-tes guy. He does have to be awake for that to happen though. I turned to him and saw he was still snoring. I poked him in the back and he rolled onto his chest. What is that? Just what is all of that? He was covered in tattoos! And he's Mexican. Great, I've married a Cholo. Just my luck.

I tilted my head to look at him. What was I thinking? He's not at all my type. He looks so scrawny. About seven foot tall with long gangly limbs. He looks just like a spider. Arms and legs everywhere. He isn't even clean shaven. His hair is a mess. He hasn't even got any muscle that I can tell. I poked him again, this time in the chest. He tensed and I widened my eyes. Perhaps I was wrong. He must be one of those secretly muscley type. When he tensed I saw the muscles in his arms and his secret abs. That doesn't mean he can stay asleep though. The final time I poked him he opened his eyes.

"Who the fuck keeps poking me?!" Mike exclaimed. The first words I've heard my husband speak.

"That would be me." I mocked with my arms folded across my chest. He looked up at me and winced. At least he's hungover too.

"Ugh, I did it again." he groaned. I hope he means hooked up and not get married. I really don't want to find out he's a Mormon.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"You're excused, sweetheart." he said easily, with a small smile.

"You- Mike Fue-n-tes... You need to get up."

"What did you call me?" he sat up.

"Mike Fue-n-tes. Your name."

"Say it again." he laughed.

"Look, we need to sort this out." I tried desperately.

"Sort what out, sweetheart? I've just spent the night with you. What's left to sort out?"

"How about a divorce, sweetheart?" I mocked.

"What?" Mike frowned. I grabbed the marriage certificate and threw it down on the bed. He looked at it and paled. "Who's Violet?" he asked timidly.

"That would be me." I muttered finally.

Notes

Hello everyone!

Yes this is another humour. Another story based on a drunken mistake. But at least no one is pregnant this time... Yet. If you didn't get that joke go read One Hundred Sleepless Nights. But humour is my jam and I actually have a plot line for this one, it's written down and everything!

But what did you think? Do you like Violet? Do you like Mike? Any predictions? Will they get a divorce? Let me know what you think. Keep lovely! xo