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.