Page 6 of Dice & Dekes

I open one eye. Viktor’s lying beside me, looking just as destroyed as I feel. I close my eye again. Open it. He’s still there.

The fuck is going on?

My gaze drags over him before my brain can catch up. His hair’s a wreck, flattened on one side like he lost a fight with a pillow. There’s a bruise blooming along his jaw, and his mouth—God, that mouth—looks kissed raw. One arm’s thrown behind his head, showcasing the bicep I’ve definitely noticed before but never stared at like this.

His chest rises and falls with every sleepy breath, cut with muscle and littered with scrapes I can’t explain. The sheet’s tented below his hips, dangerously low across the V of his abs, and sweet baby Jesus, if that’s not morning wood, I’m a flightless bird.

That’s when I realize I’m naked.

I shriek as I scramble upright, wrapping a sheet around my naked body. Doing so means dragging the sheetsoffof Viktor’s body. He whimpers and tries to pull them back.

Why am I naked? Why isViktorin his boxers?

I need water. And an Advil. And I need to know what in God’s name happened last night. I remember whiskey. A lot of whiskey. And… Elvis? What was Elvis doing there?

Viktor rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in the pillows. I’m overwhelmed by the smell of him: a hint of musk beneath layers of mint, pine, and bergamot. I’ve spent enough time around big groups of unwashed men that I usually detest BO, but Viktor actually smells good. I’m guessing he uses body wash and followed it up with a splash of cologne for the party.

I shake my head.Focus, Knova! Stop huffing your childhood friend and get up.I start to edge toward the side of the bed when something flashes silver between the pillows. At first, I think my dog tags fell off, but no, they’re still around my neck. The silver came from something smaller. Something on the finger of Viktor’s left hand. A plain silver band.

A wedding ring. When did Viktor get married?

Elvis.Elvis telling me to say, “I do.” The money shot. For Dante.I hold up my own left hand.

My ensuing scream is so loud that Viktor yelps and sits up too fast. He topples sideways over the edge of the bed and lands on the floor with a thump so heavy it rattles the floor. A moment later, his head pops back into view. “What?” he asks, his voice still thick with sleep and, probably, a hangover to rival mine. “What happened?”

This can’t be real. This isn’t happening. It’s just a hangover fever dream. Any minute now, I’ll wake up, and Dad will be yelling at Viktor from the front door about stepping on his precious grass.

I hold up my hand. Viktor squints. He stares so long that I wonder if he’s gone into some kind of error mode. Then, slowly, he lifts his hand and stares at the matching silver ring on his finger.

I expect him to scream, too. Instead, he bursts into laughter.

“This isn’tfunny!” I shriek.

“Are you kidding? It’s hilarious!” He laughs so hard that he ends up back on the floor, cackling and hooting. Clearly, he’s lost his mind because there’s nothing funny about this.

I scramble out of bed and stalk around the room in search of my things. My clothes areeverywhere.Did I explode out of them last night? Did Viktor and I…?

I can’t even bring myself to think it. There isn’t enough whiskey in the world to make me sleep with him now. We have too much history. He’s disappointed me too many times. I don’t hate him as much as I pretend to, but I certainly don’t like him enough to hook up with him. At least, I don’t think I do. Maybe drunk-me had other opinions.

I’m trying to figure out how to pull my dress on without dropping my sheet toga when the phone rings. An actual, honest-to-God landline. I’ve been so freaked out by waking up in bed with Viktor that I haven’t paid much attention to the room, which is, admittedly, spectacular. Who paid for this? It looks like the presidential suite of a five-star hotel.

I change course and head toward the phone, past a table laden with plates that must have come from room service. There’s an empty champagne bottle and two flute glasses, one of which has lipstick smudged at the rim. I feel like a crime scene investigator processing clues, and I don’t like the picture that’s coming together.

I scoop up the phone’s receiver with one hand and tighten my grip on my sheet-toga with the other. “Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Hale? This is Cherie calling from the front desk. Is everyone all right? I’m told that someone in your room screamed earlier, and there was a loud noise…?”

Mrs. Hale?That doesn’t make sense. She must have just gotten it wrong—people screw up my name all the time, especially on junk mail and spam. But Mrs. Hale is my mother, Kingsley. It wouldn’t even register if it weren’t for the ring on my left hand and the piece of paper sitting on the small desk beside the phone.

“Mrs. Hale?” she repeats.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Viktor fell over. He’s okay. Thanks for checking.”

Cherie chirps something through the phone about how she’s so glad my husband is okay, but I don’t hear what she says because I’ve already hung up. I stand there, staring down at the paper with our signatures on them. The words at the top make my already pounding headache take a turn for the worse.

Marriage License.

My name. Is written on a marriage license.

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