Page 15 of Pucked In Vegas

I freeze mid-twirl, my bare feet slapping against the sidewalk.

"Madison?!" I echo, my stomach dropping faster than my career prospects. "Is that your wife? Because I may be drunk, but I'm not a homewrecker."

His eyes widen. "What? No! God, no." He laughs, shaking his head. "She's my agent."

"Youragent?" I squint at him suspiciously. "Like, for modeling? Are you secretly a Calvin Klein underwear guy? Because that would explain the abs situation."

"Not exactly." His smile turns cryptic.

I wave my hand dismissively. "Whatever. Not important." I grab his wrist and tug. "What's important is that we have a date with Elvis."

He resists for a moment, then surrenders as I pull him toward the crosswalk.

"This is such a bad idea," he says, but there's a hint of exhilarated terror in his voice that matches the fizzy, reckless energy bubbling in my chest.

"The best stories start with bad ideas." I press the crosswalk button five times for emphasis. "Besides, what happens in Vegas—"

"—ends up on TMZ," he finishes.

"Only if you're important." I poke his chest. "Are you important, Jax-with-the-agent?"

He sighs beside me. "Not yet."

The light changes, and I drag him across the street, my bare feet slapping against the warm asphalt. The chapel's neon glow bathes us in pink as we approach, making Jax look like he's blushing from head to toe.

A tiny, rational corner of my brain—the part that writes professional emails and remembers to floss—is screaming at me to stop.

But that voice is drowned out by the much louder chorus of tequila shots and the electric current that shoots through me every time Jax's fingers brush against mine.

Chapter Four

Jackson

The first thing I register when I wake up, is that my head weighs approximately sixteen thousand pounds.

The pain arrives in waves.

First, a serious throbbing behind my eyes, then it's pulsing at my temples, drilling into the base of my skull. I've taken hits on the ice that hurt less than this hangover.

Light filters through a crack in the blackout curtains, slicing across my face like a laser beam designed specifically for torture. I groan, rolling away from it. My tongue feels like sandpaper glued to the roof of my mouth.

Water. I need water.

I reach blindly toward the nightstand, my hand connecting with something solid that topples over with a plastic clatter. What the—?

Forcing one eye open, I squint at a miniature Elvis figurine now lying on its side, one rhinestoned arm raised in eternal blessing.

Where the hell did that come from?

I try to sit up and immediately regret it. The room spins like I'm doing drills on bad ice. When the world stabilizes, I notice the glitter… fuckingglitter.

It's everywhere.

Coating my forearms in a fine, sparkly dust that catches the light. Gold and silver specks trail up to my shoulders and probably beyond. My chest looks like someone tried to frost a cupcake with body shimmer.

My pants are halfway down my thighs, belt undone, one leg completely free while the other remains trapped in expensive denim. I'm not wearing a shirt. Or socks.

Just... glitter.Fucking glitter!

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