“No, fuck that.” Becky sniffles, burrowing her face deeper in my chest. “I’ve given up everything for Dan. He’s…he’s…” “An arsehole so great, gaping and wide that even a Clydesdale’s dick could find wiggle room,” I suggest. “Yeah,” Becky agrees. “That.” “Why don’t I order you up some room service, love?” I say, even though I don’t want to part myself from her for a moment. But this isn’t the right time—the poor kitten has just had her heart broken, though the idea of Dan the Man breaking anyone’s heart is absurd to me. “You and your bridesmaids should still enjoy your night.” “No,” Becky protests, pulling away. “I want to do something crazy, Liam. Something…something that would piss Dan the Man off.” “Like crowd surfing at a Celine Dion concert?” Becky’s eyes narrow with wickedness. “That’s a start.” This is a pretty high-profile cock-up, even for Dan “The Man”. For a bloke who bills himself as so fucking boring, he’s as dodgy as they come. If I’d been across the pond when Becky Brooks agreed to marry the bugger, I would have told her then and there: this man is not the kind of chap you want to marry. My only regret is that I didn’t get a ring on this perfect, saucy little creature’s finger first… Which isn’t to say that I won’t. After all, anything can happen in Vegas… And we’ve got all night to forget.
Becky 10:01 AM THURSDAY Bzzzzzzzzzzzzt! When I wake up, it takes all the pluck and determination of a Bob the Builder crowbar to get my stupid fucking eyes open. When I come to, I immediately decide it wasn’t worth the effort. The Royale Casino, Viva Las Vegas. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Opulence out the ass. Costs an arm and a leg to book a standard room. Fancy ordering room service? Hope you’re prepared to sign away your firstborn. And my fiancé, Dan the Man? He booked me the bridal suite. His brother—sorry, step-brother—owns the place. Family discount, I guess. They let him keep his good arm. So. Here I am, hungover as fuck in the most expensive hotel in Las Vegas, a city known for money, sex, and sin. But I’m not here to sin. I’m here to get married. Hitched. I’m here to tie the knot, settle down, and make an honest woman of myself once and for all. So when I open my eyes on the first morning of my three-day bachelorette party in Vegas, I ought to be thinking about bride stuff. Roses. Hors d’oeuvres. I should be peeling off an organic cucumber-placenta facial rejuvenation mask, gently fretting about whether there will be enough beluga caviar at the wedding reception and ruminating on how fucking much I love my husband-to-be. When I actually open my eyes, what really happens is I peel my tongue off the roof of my dry-mouth and realize that Dan is not getting his fucking deposit back. Broken bottles. Shattered glass. Smoke. Feathers. Whipped cream. And that noise—an incessant vibrating that strikes fear in my loins and sends a pang of guilt shooting through my very soul, though I know not why. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzt! A bedazzled rogue vibrator chugs across the floor of the lounge. It smears blue raspberry lube behind it like a snail trail until it jams up, sputters and dies tangled in the shag of