Beer Goggles Anthology Page 10

  “Was it? Cool.” I keep driving straight ahead.

  “Turn around, jackass.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You said you’d take me to my hotel. My hotel is back there.”

  “I will take you to your hotel. After we take a little side trip to Atlantic City.”

  “Atlantic City?” Her cheeks are redder now. Flaming red, actually.

  “Chill out. It’s only an hour drive.”

  She reaches for the door handle, but she’s not stupid. We’re doing sixty miles per hour. She growls, then digs inside her purse and pulls out her phone instead.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Calling the cops.”

  “Atlantic City is perfectly legal.”

  “Yes, but kidnapping isn’t.”

  Shit.

  She starts to dial, and I lurch over the seat and snatch the phone away.

  “Hey!” she yells.

  I toss it under my seat. “Listen, lady. You’re going to go out tonight and have some fun. And you’re going to do it with me. Then, maybe, you’ll loosen up enough to get that rod out of your ass.”

  Chapter Three

  Quinn

  My head is going to explode. I crack an eye open, then shut it immediately. Light. Too much light.

  I feel like I weigh six hundred pounds. Every inch of my body aches. There’s a strange pain in my hip, and I want to puke.

  Hangover.

  I cover my eyes with my palm and press down. How much did I drink? What did I drink?

  Wine, I remember. Two glasses or three?

  I think, but I come up with nothing. It had to be three. Two glasses isn’t enough for me to feel like this.

  No, I wouldn’t feel like this with three either. What the hell happened last night?

  I open my eyes and blink until the curtains across from me come into focus. They’re closed, allowing only a slight glow from outside to seep through. Damn, the pattern is ugly.

  Ugly curtains.

  Ugly burgundy curtains.

  Wait.

  No.

  I lower my gaze to the carpet. Stained, puke-green with burgundy flowers.

  Oh, hell no!

  This is not the Ramada.

  My mind begins to clear, and I swallow as I peek underneath the sheet that’s covering me. I’m naked. I don’t sleep naked.

  I stiffen at movement that’s not my own. I’m so clearly not alone. Someone groans. It’s deep, husky, and I’m too afraid to look.

  Think. Think. Think, I command myself.

  I run through the foggy memories until I stop on a face. Blue eyes, brown hair, khaki pants with a wine stain in the crotch—Grayson Radcliffe. Oh, shit.

  He groans again, and I don’t know what’s worse: him being Grayson or him not.

  I have to get out of here. Preferably before he’s fully conscious. I don’t have a clue what happened between us, and the last thing I want is for him to remind me. He’ll gloat, cocky asshole.

  I scan the floor for my clothes, but they’re not there. The duvet is. I see nothing else. Gingerly, I lift myself up a little to get a better look. There’s an empty bottle of peach schnapps on the television stand. That’s the first clue as to why my memories are gone and my head contains TNT.

  Arms circle me, and something hard pokes me in the ass. I grip the sheet as I jump out of bed. The sheet doesn’t come with me, though, still partially tucked under the mattress. I’m ripping at it, trying to get it unstuck, when blue eyes open and a smirk spreads across Grayson’s lips.

  “Good morning.” His gaze dips down. The sheet is only covering my chest.

  I move forward and the material slackens to conceal the rest of me. “Let go of the sheet.”

  I think he’s about to refuse, but then his smile widens and he shoves his portion off him. He rolls onto his back, tucks his hands behind his head, and Mr. Stiffy stands at attention.

  I’m flustered for two seconds before I regain myself. “Cover yourself up.”

  “You took the sheet.”

  “Clothing…or something.” I grunt, yanking hard until the rest of the material frees, and I wrap the cotton around my body.

  “You wanted my clothing off last night.”

  “I wanted nothing,” I say, spinning around to avoid him. “Where’s my shirt?”

  “Oh, really?”

  I don’t reply. The carpet is clothes-free. Not even Grayson’s clothes are there. I look into the bathroom. Nothing but a couple of towels in clumps on the floor.

  I open the empty dresser drawers. Check the nightstands. Throw wide the fridge.

  Where the fuck are my clothes?

  I drop down and look under the bed.

  “Lose something?” he asks, now on his hands and knees on the mattress above me.

  “What did you do with my clothes?”

  He snickers. “I didn’t wear them, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “This isn’t funny, damnit! Where are my goddamn clothes?” I’m fuming. I’ve had it with this man. In fact, I’m going to kill him.

  He throws his hands out. “No idea.”

  “They have to be with yours. Where are yours?”

  “They have to be, huh? Why’s that?”

  “Because…” I don’t have to explain this to him. He just wants me to admit we had sex, and the proof is that our clothes are hidden together somewhere.

  But that doesn’t make sense either, does it? Why have sex then hide your clothes?

  Unless we were…unless I was…

  I stand. Point at him as I back up. “You drugged me!”

  “Oh, get real. You got drunk, we fucked, you liked it and you’re too proud to admit it.”

  “We did not fuck, and I certainly didn’t like it.”

  “Then why are you so pissed off? If nothing happened…” He shrugs.

  He’s so calm. Why is he so calm?

  Gah!

  Grayson

  I don’t have a fucking clue what happened last night. I took her up to Atlantic City, we had some drinks—okay, we had a lot of drinks—and I woke up this morning. I also don’t have a fucking clue where our clothes are, but I’m having too much fun to tell her. From where I’m standing, it seems like we had a great time together and I’m not ready for that to end yet.

  “Where’s my phone?” she demands, holding up the sheet wrapped around her. I might not remember what we did last night, but I sure won’t forget her naked body when she got out of bed.

  I’m standing up, buck naked beside the bed. My dick is no longer hard, but that doesn’t stop her from glancing at it. At some point, it made an impression on her. Or in her.

  “Put something on, will you?” she says.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. A towel?”

  “Why? Does this bother you?” I turn in a circle, then thrust my hips forward.

  She puts her hand up as if that will block my nakedness. I like that my body flusters her. I hope it flustered her into those little squeals girls make when I shove inside them.

  She stares at the floor for a moment. Then her head snaps up. “Your truck,” she answers her own question. “My phone is in your truck. Go get it.”

  “You want me to go outside like this?” I cup myself to force her attention down there. She looks.

  “No, I want you to get our clothes first.”

  Hand on her hip, she tips her chin up. She’s backed me into a corner. I can’t string this on, because we have a wedding to attend, and I don’t even know what city we’re in right now. Are we still in New Jersey?

  “I don’t have our clothes,” I say, scanning the floor. There’re empty, half-empty, and full liquor bottles, but nothing else.

  “My sister’s wedding is today, asshat. It’s nine-thirty in the morning, and I have to be at St. Francis’ at two. Get the damn clothing.”

  I start toward the bathroom. Grab one of the towels from the floor and wrap it around my waist. “I
don’t have the damn clothes, all right? I’m just as in the dark as you are.”

  I stalk to the dresser. She already checked the drawers, so I lift the furniture to look behind it. Judging by the layers of dust, I’m the first one to do that in a while. No clothes.

  “So you don’t know?” she asks, still skeptical.

  I also drop to the floor and look under the bed. Nope, nothing.

  I get up and tighten the towel. “No clue.”

  She sinks down on the bed. “You don’t remember anything?”

  “I lost a hundred bucks playing craps. Last thing I remember.” Her brow furrows in thought. “You were pretty sloshed by then,” I say.

  “Where’s your phone?”

  “In my pants.”

  Dawning darkens her irises. “Is this your hotel?”

  Slowly, I shake my head. “Never been here in my life.”

  Chapter Four

  Quinn

  At least I didn’t sleep with him. I don’t remember, he doesn’t remember, it never happened. First problem solved.

  Problem number two.

  I sort through the hotel magazines they leave on the desk. There’s a flyer for Pizza Hut. “We’re in Longport.”

  “Where the hell is Longport?”

  “South of Atlantic city.”

  Is this really what people do when they say “fun?” This is a nightmare. The mechanic kidnapped me, took me to Atlantic City, got me drunk off my ass, and now we’re in Longport with no clothes. Fun? God, people are morons.

  I point at the door. “Go see what room we’re in.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can call the front desk. Someone checked us in, right? Someone knows something.”

  He cracks the door open, then shuts it. “Two fourteen.”

  I dial and the concierge answers. “Hi, this is Quinn Lawson in room two fourteen. I was wondering if the person who checked us in last night is available?”

  “I’m sorry. Her shift ended at seven. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Uh, did I, by chance, order laundry service?”

  “Let me check for you. No, I don’t see anything.”

  “Okay. One more question. What time did I check in?”

  “Hmmm…let me see. Looks like three-eighteen this morning.”

  “Great. Can I get a late checkout?”

  “Of course, ma’am. Anything else?”

  “No. Thank you.” I hang up. The information isn’t all that helpful, but there’s at least a tiny piece filled in.

  My head is pounding, and I can’t think clearly. We only have a few hours left to figure this thing out, get dressed, and drive back to Camden.

  “Hey,” Grayson hollers from the bathroom. “Come here.”

  I’m not meeting him in the bathroom. “You’re at least intelligent enough to know how to use a toilet by yourself, aren’t you?”

  He pops his head out. “Probably more than you. Get your ass in here.”

  I push up off the bed and tighten the sheet around me. He’s got a towel wrapped around his waist, but the rest of him is still bare. Tanned skin, pectorals that make brainless twits melt, and arms used to heavy work. But I don’t care. None of that does anything for me.

  I stand in the doorway, refusing to step inside. My gaze wanders up his torso. I blink. Shift my attention to the floor. “What?”

  There’s a smile in his voice when he answers, “We spent time in here last night.”

  “Yes, bathrooms are popular places for human beings. Especially drunk ones.”

  “Towels on the floor. Shampoo and soap bottles in the shower. Vomit in the toilet. And…” He lifts the garbage can, tilting it toward me.

  My heart stops. I reach in and pull out the condom wrapper. Just the wrapper. It’s the only thing in the trash can. “Where’s the rest?”

  His eyes glitter as he shrugs.

  I throw the empty wrapper back in the bin, my gaze hanging on his. What color would you call his irises? Cerulean?

  I spin around and let out a breath. I’ve got to get the hell out of here.

  Grayson

  I pull back the curtains. It’s a beautiful view of the ocean. Water with white crescent waves stretch out in both directions. Whichever one of us paid for this room probably paid extra.

  “Shit.” I close the curtains.

  “What?” Quinn asks, her eyes cutting to the wall as soon as I turn around.

  “The beach. I need to find the parking lot.” I stalk to the door.

  “You’re going out like that? With a towel?”

  “It was your idea first, remember?” I wait for a moment, but she doesn’t answer. “Your cell is in my truck, right? Maybe we left out other shit in there too.”

  She flicks her wrist. “Go.”

  I get out into the hallway and instantly wonder why hotels don’t have larger towels. I’m cool, though, strutting toward the elevator like I’m not wearing a piece of terry cloth. But damn, if there’s any kind of breeze outside, someone’s in for a show.

  “Hey,” I say, nodding to the others in the elevator.

  The lady clears her throat, and I feel her gaze on my back. Much like Quinn’s. After the discovery of the Trojan wrapper, I’m one hundred percent sure I gave her a wild ride last night. Plus, she is a tiny bit less bitchy today. I wonder what my chances are for a round two?

  Milky white skin. Full breasts with pretty pink nipples. Her red hair falling around her shoulders, the ends brushing over her boobs. Fuuuck.

  Towel, I remind myself. I’m wearing nothing but a towel.

  Football. Carburetors. Chapstick. Soap.

  Ah, she smells like watermelon soap.

  Ding.

  I cross the lobby and push the glass doors open. The rows of clean sedans and SUVs should make my partially rusted Dodge Ram easy to spot. I scan the parking lot.

  Not there.

  “Where’s my truck?” I say to myself. Goddamnit.

  I go back inside and stand behind a couple with two children at the front desk. The little girl looks up at me and whispers something to her brother. The boy turns to me before nodding at her.

  “The beach is nice here, isn’t it?” I ask.

  The girl nods, then moves to stand in front of her parents. As soon as they leave, I step up.

  “Hi. I’m in room, uh, two fourteen. Could you tell me if I left a license plate number when I checked in?”

  “Sure.” The attendant checks the computer. “Says that you were dropped off by a cab.”

  “Does it say what cab service?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Okay, I’m Grayson Radcliffe. Can you tell me if I paid for the room?”

  “Yes, sir, you did. Would you like me to change the card on file?”

  “Credit card?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I bounce my palm twice on the counter. “No, that one is fine. Thank you.”

  “Sir?” she says as I go to leave. She lowers her voice. “We do ask that patrons are appropriately dressed outside their rooms.”

  I grin. “Yeah.”

  I take the unused stairs back up to the second floor. Once there I realize I don’t have a key. Hopefully Quinn answers.

  I knock. “I’m back.”

  She opens, stepping back so no one sees her from the hallway. “Did you get it?”

  “My truck isn’t here. Apparently we took a cab.”

  Her eyes are wide. She blinks. “A cab?”

  “Makes sense. We were too drunk to drive.”

  “Your truck is back in Atlantic City, then?”

  “That would be my guess.”

  She crosses her arms. “When I get us out of here, I’m going to kill you.”

  Chapter Five

  Quinn

  No clothes.

  No phones.

  No vehicle.

  No money.

  Missing condom.

  I need a drink.

  Except a drink is what got me here in the
first place. Several drinks, from the looks of it. I decide to make a pot of coffee while I figure out this mess.

  I never call Emma, so I don’t have her cell number memorized. I know Dad’s office number and my parents’ home number, but those are useless since they’re not there. Both Haley and Katrina are back in California, and I’ve now exhausted my most favorable options.

  God, I really don’t want to do this.

  “You’re going to have to call Travis.”

  Grayson is leaning against the wall. The slit in his towel works up his thigh, revealing tanned skin stretched over taut muscle. His gaze lowers until it meets mine. I want to look away but I can’t. He’s got me trapped.

  He licks his bottom lip, and tingles race up my spine.

  “All right.” He pushes off the wall and reaches for the phone.

  His back faces me as he dials. The towel sits low on his waist. He has little butt dimples on either side of his spine, and I feel the corner of my mouth tip up.

  “Yeah, Travis. It’s me…Great night…I think Quinn had an amazing night, man. In fact, it was so amazing that she’s still with me…No, shit…Hey, you think you could drive to Longport and pick us up? Long story. Short version is we’re stuck at a hotel here. My truck is somewhere in Atlantic City…A couple of hours? Yeah…One more thing: could you bring us some clothes?”

  Great. No way Travis won’t call Emma about this. And no way will my sister keep this juicy information to herself.

  “She’s pissy this morning,” Grayson says into the phone. “A sheet. I’m in a towel…Shower? True. We’ll be ready…All right. Later.”

  He hangs up, and when he turns around, the towel dips a little lower in the front.

  I want to yell at him for telling Travis what I’m wearing, but the tattoo on his hip has me speechless. I’m staring at it, fear striking deep into my bones.

  No, no, no.

  Without thinking, I slide my fingers over the top of the design. Red and raw, it’s obviously new.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  He lowers the towel, and I choke.

  Two entwined circles. My name in one, his in the other.