Page 8 of The Quirky Vet

"Dunno." I raise my left hand so he can see. "But you're not the only one."

He frowns. "That's weird."

"You wanna talk about weird? Have a look at your dick."

"It's too early for your cock jokes."

"I'm not being funny, just do it."

He eyes me like I'm a lunatic—fair—then cautiously raises the sheet and peers down. "What the fuck is that?"

"It's a cock ring, mate," I say, like I'm talking about grabbing a sausage roll, not the fact we've both woken up with two rings on our bodies.

Muir drops the sheet and shakes his head, dragging a hand through his mop of honey-blond hair. "What is happening? Aw, fuck."

"What's wrong?"

"My head. I shouldn't have moved it like that." He scrubs his hand down his face. "Why does it feel like someone is jackhammering inside my brain?"

"Might have something to do with the ocean of alcohol we consumed last night."

He lets out a deep groan and curls his arms around the pillow I slept on, nuzzling his face into it. Clearly, my shit don't stink.

We both fall quiet.

The room is stuffy, Muir's dazed and not fully awake, and my bladder is full. The cock ring isn't helping.

"I need to piss," I announce. "Let's freshen up. Get some coffee into us. And then we'll talk." Muir remains silent, so I press. "Yeah?"

He nods without looking at me. "Yeah. Okay."

"Oh, and mate, try to resist the urge to check out my arse."

And with that, I throw off the covers and stagger to the bathroom, head pounding as the hangover from hell makes its presence felt.

Half an hour later, the head pounding has softened to a mild throb. Might have something to do with being on my second plate of brekky and third cuppa.

"How can you eat?" Muir's nose crinkles as he pushes his plate away.

"One, it's an all-you-can-eat hotel breakfast buffet, which means it is my solemn duty to eat as much food as is humanly possible. And two"—I scoop up a forkful of scrambled eggs and bacon. "This is fucking delicious." I push his plate back towards him. "Have a little. Even a few bites. You'll feel better. Trust me."

"Trust you?" He manages a weak grin. "I have a feeling that's how we got intothatmess."

He taps the rings—the wedding rings, not the other ones—we've placed in the middle of the table. We didn't realise we were still wearing them until we started eating. It felt strange to keep them on, but now it feels even stranger seeing them next to the salt and pepper shakers.

"Why do you automatically assume that's my fault?"

"To save time."

I chuckle. "That's fair."

I watch as Muir picks up the knife and fork and takes a few bites of his food, chewing slowly, like he's worried it might come up as soon as it goes down. Thankfully, the next few minutes turn out to be vomit-free.

"So," he begins when I return to the table with my fourth cuppa refill. "We should talk."

"Agreed."

"What do you remember of last night?"

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