by Abby Knox
She watched her eyes grow huge and fearful in the mirror.
Had she been making out with a giant leech? Because that was the only level of suckage that might possibly have produced such a bruise. No way that was going away before the wedding in two days. Shit. Forget about her own mother killing her; that old lady would have to get in line behind Rosemary and Aunt Betsy.
Focus, Chas. Focus. Where are you? And who were you kissing last night? Chas closed her eyes, and then she sniffed. A man’s scent. All over her. Like, really all over her.
She did not hate this scent, whoever it was. Too bad he wasn’t here so she could interrogate him about this giant hickey.
She stumbled back to the bed to look for her phone. Surely the GPS could tell her where she was and how to get back to the mansion. She could probably enlist some of the other bridesmaids to help her sort her evening out. She really didn’t want to bother Rosemary with any of this.
As she dug through the mess of sheets and blankets, Chas got her biggest clue about the night’s events. There, in the middle of the bed, was a small spot of blood. Her mind raced. Did that really happen? The ache between her legs and her sore thighs gave her the answer. Yes, some serious shit happened, and happened rather enthusiastically, she surmised.
Whoa.
So…not a virgin anymore. On the one hand, mission accomplished. On the other hand…dammit, I missed the whole thing.
Now she was desperate to find her partner in last night’s crimes. She looked around the room for clues, but all she found were her pashmina and her shoes. There was something else, too: a soreness on her butt.
What in the world?
She lifted up her dress and twisted her torso enough to see what it was. A bandage. She lifted the tape around the bandage to reveal a tattoo of a Valentine heart that looked like it had been clawed by a wild animal. On the heart was a letter “G” written in elaborate calligraphy.
G? Who the fuck is G?
She had to find her phone.
Oh man, she also needed water. And coffee. And a large JB Chicken crispy breakfast biscuit slathered in butter and ghost pepper jelly. And ibuprofen, stat. But first, her phone.
Ignoring the little blood stain on the bed that represented the end of her innocence, she kept rifling through the sheets, pillows and blankets. Finally, she found her clutch purse, under the bed.
She opened her clutch and breathed a sigh of relief as she plopped onto the floor. A few undamaged brain cells must have started working again, because she suddenly had the brilliant idea of looking at her photos. Yes! Of course! Surely there would be photo evidence of what happened last night.
She ignored the little red dot that indicated she had several unopened text messages and tapped the photo icon on her phone screen. Up popped an album marked “G.”
Because, of course. Drunk Chas could not be bothered to do any favors for future Sober Chas by fully naming the dude who presumably had “taken her flower.” That would be her mother’s phrase for it.
She held her breath and clicked on the album marked “G.”
What opened before her was a series of images that would make any brothel madam blush. Good lord! Who was this acrobatic and… whoa! Tanned, muscular specimen with a six-pack that you could bounce a quarter off of? She swiped through and felt the heat rising her to face. She got a glimpse of long, wavy brown hair. Nice. A shoulder with a Jolly Roger tattoo.
Really, dude?
There was a hip tattoo that matched hers, only with the letter “C.” “Oh god,” she groaned. What tattoo artist in his or her right mind would allow this to be done on a pair of drunks?
She saw in the thumbnails there was a face. Her heart skipped a beat and she was about to click it when another one distracted her. A pretty shocking one.
Oh my. Was that his…it was. Oh god. Yeah, she clicked. Who could resist?
Wow.
Well.
She checked herself. Was she actually grinning at a dick pic right now? That was a first.
That explains why she was finding it hard to walk this morning. And why she had somehow agreed to matching tattoos, because damn. That thing could probably convince just about anyone, man or woman, to sell both kidneys in exchange for a thorough night of hot sex.
Enough, Chas. Get to the face. We need to identify this bad boy.
She clicked on the thumbnail of his face. It wasn’t a full face. Most of the screen was taken up by her own smiling, drunk-ass face, with the presumed G’s face taking up about one eighth of the screen at the top right-hand side. She saw a brown eye, sun-kissed skin, long, wavy hair. Did he have a beard? She could not tell. She kind of hoped so. He was most definitely a hot piece of ass, beard or no beard.
Nothing to indicate a name, though.
Crap.
And who was she, exactly? Five years ago, at the age of 17, she was Miss Junior Baton Rouge 2012, cutting the ribbon on the new YMCA splash park, smiling wide for the newspaper photographer. Now she was on the floor of a weird apartment, in the dress she’d worn the night before, desperately searching for clues about the man who took her virginity.
She pressed the “home” button to go back to her text messages for more clues. But as soon as she did that, everything went black.
Wait, what?
Yep. Her phone was dead.
And she was pretty sure she did not have a phone charger. Sure, hell-bent on losing her virginity last night, she’d remembered to tuck a condom, a passport (she didn’t drive, so no license) and her daddy’s platinum card into her clutch. But a firewire? Why on earth would that be necessary?
There was also a bigger problem here. Not only did she not know who G was, not know where she was, and not know where her fellow bridesmaids might be, she also did not know if she’d messed up the whole encounter by shifting into a wildcat last night.
That last detail was pretty important, too, because it could have meant the difference between her supposed partner being alive and walking around with the glow of a freshly laid man, or being in hiding and scared to death.
Or worse—actually, very literally dead.
“G”
Oh shit. Am I dead?
Because that would really, really suck. Nobody wants to wake up dead after the first time they ever have sex.
Because, as it turns out? All the fuss, all the songs, all the heartache, all the drama? It happens for a very good reason.
Because, G decided upon waking up, sex was good.
Better than good. Pretty fucking great.
Now, if only he could remember who she was and how it all started.
He opened his eyes in hopes that it wouldn’t all disappear like a really amazing dream. The sun was coming up but still mercifully obscured by the trees.
The fuzzy events of the night did not disappear like an amazing dream that he wanted to close his eyes and get back to. Things had actually happened. Some really fucking sublime things.
It was all real. At the nearly freakishly old age of 25, G had finally lost his virginity. All of his buddies at Ashton Boudreaux’s bachelor party would be very happy for him.
Except they were not there right now. And neither was she. Whoever she was.
Curious.
Even more curious was the fact that he was lying on the grass in the woods. Naked. Alone.
And his belly was full.
He had the taste of fresh blood in his mouth.
So he had shifted to the wolf last night. How in the hell did that happen? It wasn’t a full moon. Besides, no pack of wolves like Ash, Bobby and Vann would ever plan a bachelor party on the night of a full moon. Not unless they all wanted to end up dead or in prison or both. Alcohol and full moons do not mix. Especially not when it comes to shapeshifters.
Sure, he wasn’t always the best at keeping track of his moon cycles, but that’s pack mentality. You depend on each other.
But where was his pack now?
He went through the list. Ash was probably at Rosemary
’s flat, sleeping it off. Vann West, their boy who was now a celebrity chef, had just last night come home from a shoot in Seoul, South Korea, for the week of wedding festivities. He was probably off boning his new girl GiGi, whom he hadn’t seen since March. G wondered if that would last, knowing what he knew about them both. He also wondered if those two ever did stuff with icing.
Focus, man. Focus.
Where was Bobby? Bobby was known to get melancholy toward the end of the night, whenever the pack partied together. G wasn’t sure, but it probably had something to do with his past. It was so long ago, but Bobby would carry that cross to his grave. Poor guy. G hoped sincerely that his friend would one day be able to get his mind off of it. Of course, G and Ash and Vann knew exactly the only person who could help Bobby with all of that. The only one who could not see that was Bobby.
Look at yourself, G. Lying naked on the ground in the pre-dawn hours and all you can think about is your friend’s happiness? No wonder you were a virgin until last night.
Get it together. Find your clothes. And then find the girl.
G carefully sat upright. He looked to his left. There was the lake. He and the boys had probably gone for a dip to sober up at some point. Had he brought the girl with him for that? Was she still here?
The next second, the only thought he had was about the annoying pain in his hip. What the…
And then he turned and looked down and saw the bandage. Oh no.
It was exactly the kind of bandage he used at his tattoo parlor to help his customers protect fresh tattoos. But G didn’t have a fresh tattoo on his hip, because that would be ridiculous. Right?
So ridiculous, only a drunk asshole would agree to this. For fuck’s sake. He carefully peeled back the tape and took a look. It was a heart with the letter “C” in it. The heart looked like it had gashes in it and blood flowing out. The way the “C” was inked, calligraphy-style, was the most telling part of all. That was his own ink. As in, G had literally given himself a tattoo.
“That explains how a tattoo artist would agree to do ink on a drunk asshole,” he said aloud.
The upside was, at least he knew his shop and his equipment were clean.
Full marks for that, dipshit. Now go find your clothes.
About the Author
Abby Knox lives a dual life. Fantasy Abby would love to either live on a farm with Ryan Gosling, where she could raise goats and chickens; or be a professional baker and adopt wolves as pets. Reality Abby desires neither to muck out stalls nor to stand on her feet all day perfecting pie crusts for angry customers. So, the ever-pragmatic Reality Abby keeps Fantasy Abby happy by putting her into sweet little works of romantic fiction with her pretend hobbies. Both Abbies hope you enjoy this brand of sweet, sexy — and sometimes weird — storytelling. This is Abby’s sixth book.
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Also by Abby Knox
From the Small-Town Bachelor Series
Take Me Home
Game Face
Written in the Stars, a special Christmas edition
Walk with Me (March 2018)
From the Sisterhood Enchantment, a paranormal romance series
Some Basic Witch
Witch, Please (February 2018)
Resting Witch Face (spring 2018)
Her Big Easy Wedding
Part One: Taking the Belle
Part Three: Chasing the Night (February 2018)
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