Page 10 of Pucking One Night Stand

Where we were kissing. Stumbling. Laughing.

Asshole.

I jab the elevator button like it owes me money. When the doors slide open, I get in, arms folded, foot tapping. As I descend, I can’t help it, this little grin creeps onto my lips.

What would Dad say if he knew? His baby girl, banging one of his precious team players. He’d have an actual aneurysm.

I almost want to tell him, just for fun. Almost.

The elevator pings, and the doors open onto the Aurora Hotel lobby. It’s buzzing with early morning chaos. Suitcases roll across the floor, there’s a hiss of a steam wand at the café, and someone argues about checkout times.

I push straight through a group loitering at the reception desk because, guess what? I’ve got bigger issues than their missing continental breakfast.

The concierge looks me up and down, probably clocking the skin-tight black dress and the complete absence of shame.

I meet his stare dead on. “WHAT?”

He blinks. “Oh, have a nice day, ma’am.”

I flip my hair like I own the entire building and strut toward the automatic doors.

Outside, the Vegas sun punches me in the face, and I squint like a mole crawling out of a cave, and dig for my keys as I walk across the hot asphalt of the parking lot.

There. Fob.

I press the button and my red sporty BMW flashes its headlights like it’s greeting me with a sarcastic little, “Rough night?”

You don’t know the half of it, baby.

I hurry the last few steps, yank the door open, toss my bag into the passenger seat, and drop into the driver’s side like the world’s hottest mess.

The engine starts.

I’ve got twenty minutes to get home, scrub myself into something resembling a professional, and make it to the arena for my first day.

Let’s go.

I slam my foot on the gas, and my car screeches as I fly out of the Aurora parking lot like I’m in a goddamn action movie. My tires squeal, and some poor valet dives out of the way. Whatever, he’ll live.

Vegas is already wide awake. Neon signs still glow like they never got the memo that it’s morning, and traffic crawls like every car on Tropicana Avenue is on life support.

“Move, you ass wipe!” I bark at the Prius doing 22 in a 45. I swerve into the next lane without even blinking. “You’ve got a job to start, and it's not sightseeing!”

I dart left, wedge myself between a cab and a garbage truck, and gun it.

“Out of the fucking way! You… Jesus.”

The ramp to I-15 North is chaos, as I slam into the curve and force my way on like I own the whole damn freeway. Speed limit says 65, I’m at 83 and climbing. I cut between lanes and slicein front of a delivery truck that blasts its horn at me. Like that’s going to slow me down.

“Yeah, yeah, blow it out your exhaust pipe, SHITHEAD!”

At Sahara Avenue, I barely make the exit, swerving so hard the tires nearly slide right off the pavement. My coffee-deprived brain flings up a mental death wish, and I ignore it like usual.

Decatur Boulevard greets me with a charming blend of red lights and people who definitely shouldn’t have licenses.

I blow through a light that might have been yellow… or not.

Oops. Too late now, officer!