Page 2 of The Quirky Vet (Vet Shop Boys Down Under #2)

Fitz

I have no idea how one drink turned into a few drinks, which turned into Muir and me crawling—not literally, but not too far off either—into the hotel just as the first light touched the sky.

Come to think of it, a lot of details from our monumental piss-up are a blur. But there are times in life when you need to get black-out drunk, and last night most definitely qualified as one of those times.

But fuck, I'm paying for it this morning. I dig my fingers into my sleep-encrusted eyes and let out a yawn, silently thanking the genius who invented light-blocking curtains because me and sunlight would not be on good terms right now.

My hand instinctively reaches over to the nightstand, searching for my phone. It's not there.

Weird.

I may have gotten so shitfaced off my tits that even trying to remember what happened once we left the beach makes me dizzy, but there's no way I'd ever not charge my phone.

Unless it's on the other side of the bed?

I roll over to check and stop mid-roll.

I'm not alone in the bed.

Muir's sprawled out on his back, an arm covering his face, the sheets pooled just underneath his belly button. The light-blue glow of the bedside clock illuminates his broad chest and well-defined arms, his heavy breathing punctuating the quiet.

Wait a fucking minute.

Why is Muir in my room?

I take in my surroundings.

Shit. Let me rephrase that. Why am I in his room? In his bed?

I lift the sheet and glance down at my body.

And why the fuck am I stark bloody naked?

And what on earth is that thing pressing into my flesh? I lower my hand to my dick and touch it.

Is that a…cock ring? I've only ever seen them in porn—they're cheesy as fuck, if you ask me—and I sure as heck have never worn one before.

Pulling my hand back sharply, I spot another silver band. This one on my left hand.

Why am I wearing a ring on my wedding fing?—?

Oh no.

I glance at Muir.

Oh no, no, no.

A memory from last night breaks through the hangover fog.

The pop-up Vegas wedding chapel.

We passed it on the way to the beach, but Muir wasn't up for checking it out.

But on the way back, I have a distinct recollection of grabbing his arm and yanking him inside.

But what did we do in there?

And what the fuck is a pop-up wedding chapel anyway? That's not even a thing.

Is it?

Ugh. Too many questions way too early in the day. I need to piss, take a shower, and get some coffee in me before I'm ready to tackle whatever mess we slash I may have gotten ourselves into.

Before I get up, I take a moment to take a proper look at Muir, gently snoring under his arm.

Funny to think that the awkward, gangly, gap-toothed kid Mr. Harris introduced to the class on the first day of grade five would grow up to be quite the looker, with his chiselled physique, striking dark-blue eyes, and blond curls that have the old ladies back home in Scuttlebutt stopping him in the street to admire. It's cute how he pretends it annoys him.

But more important than his looks, though, is that he's become the person I'm closest to in this world.

Don't get me wrong, I love my folks and my brother and sister with all my heart, even though they're all batshit crazy.

And I do—did?—love Erin. I was down on my knee asking if she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me not less than twenty-four hours ago for chrissakes.

But even with her, it was different.

Muir is the only person I can truly be myself with. I don't have to be the switched-on, larger-than-life doofus who wears silly outfits or comes up with viral koala dances. I can just be me, not the person I've tried to become ever since?—

"I can smell your stinky breath from here."

I grin. "Nah, mate. That's your own shitty breath mingling with the stench of your sweaty armpit coming back at ya." Muir moves his arm away from his face, smirking as he rotates his wrist, and flicks his middle finger in the air. "Yeah. I'd stick to sign language if I were in your shoes, too."

He chuckles, but my eyes drift to the finger next to the one he's giving me. He must clock it, too, because his chuckle trails off, and he brings his hand to his face for closer inspection.

"Why am I wearing this?"

"Dunno." I raise my left hand so he can see. "But you're not the only one."

He frowns. "That's weird."

"You wanna talk about weird? Have a look at your dick."

"It's too early for your cock jokes."

"I'm not being funny, just do it."

He eyes me like I'm a lunatic—fair—then cautiously raises the sheet and peers down. "What the fuck is that?"

"It's a cock ring, mate," I say, like I'm talking about grabbing a sausage roll, not the fact we've both woken up with two rings on our bodies.

Muir drops the sheet and shakes his head, dragging a hand through his mop of honey-blond hair. "What is happening? Aw, fuck."

"What's wrong?"

"My head. I shouldn't have moved it like that." He scrubs his hand down his face. "Why does it feel like someone is jackhammering inside my brain?"

"Might have something to do with the ocean of alcohol we consumed last night."

He lets out a deep groan and curls his arms around the pillow I slept on, nuzzling his face into it. Clearly, my shit don't stink.

We both fall quiet.

The room is stuffy, Muir's dazed and not fully awake, and my bladder is full. The cock ring isn't helping.

"I need to piss," I announce. "Let's freshen up. Get some coffee into us. And then we'll talk." Muir remains silent, so I press. "Yeah?"

He nods without looking at me. "Yeah. Okay."

"Oh, and mate, try to resist the urge to check out my arse."

And with that, I throw off the covers and stagger to the bathroom, head pounding as the hangover from hell makes its presence felt.

Half an hour later, the head pounding has softened to a mild throb. Might have something to do with being on my second plate of brekky and third cuppa.

"How can you eat?" Muir's nose crinkles as he pushes his plate away.

"One, it's an all-you-can-eat hotel breakfast buffet, which means it is my solemn duty to eat as much food as is humanly possible. And two"—I scoop up a forkful of scrambled eggs and bacon. "This is fucking delicious." I push his plate back towards him. "Have a little. Even a few bites. You'll feel better. Trust me."

"Trust you?" He manages a weak grin. "I have a feeling that's how we got into that mess."

He taps the rings—the wedding rings, not the other ones—we've placed in the middle of the table. We didn't realise we were still wearing them until we started eating. It felt strange to keep them on, but now it feels even stranger seeing them next to the salt and pepper shakers.

"Why do you automatically assume that's my fault?"

"To save time."

I chuckle. "That's fair."

I watch as Muir picks up the knife and fork and takes a few bites of his food, chewing slowly, like he's worried it might come up as soon as it goes down. Thankfully, the next few minutes turn out to be vomit-free.

"So," he begins when I return to the table with my fourth cuppa refill. "We should talk."

"Agreed."

"What do you remember of last night?"

"Let me have a think…"

I dig through what I can recall.

Whisking Erin away into a private dining room as Muir and Maisey went into theirs, exchanging a look with him that conveyed we got this plus this will blow up on TikTok.

Sensing something was off as soon as I knelt down and it was obvious I was about to propose—Erin didn't light up. She just stared at me with a blank expression on her face.

Hearing her softly mumbled words: "No. I'm sorry. You're not— This isn't. No."

Walking out of the private dining room like a zombie to be met with an equally blindsided Muir, watching as our former girlfriends, never-to-be fiancées, took off arm in arm, almost as if they'd coordinated their responses, which is impossible since we'd kept my awesome surprise tightly under wraps.

Stumbling into a rooftop bar that was way too hip for us then moving on to a jazz bar cocktail lounge that was way too quiet for us, where a very lovely security guard politely asked us to fuck off.

Then there was a bar with a bunch of blonde chicks and having a boogie with some cool gay dudes.

Then we ended up at the beach. I only remember that because my feet and calves were covered in patches of dried sand when I showered this morning.

"How about after the beach?" I suggest.

"Hmm."

"Hmm, what?"

"That's where shit starts to go a bit wonky for me."

"Same here." I pick up the ring. "Actually, that's not entirely true. Do you remember the pop-up Vegas chapel?"

"The what?"

"It was on the side of the footpath. A white circus-like tent. I wanted to go inside on the way to the beach."

"Sort of."

"I managed to convince you to go inside on the way from the beach."

"O-kay. Can you remember what happened next? And what the fuck is a pop-up Vegas chapel anyway?"

"Hey, hey, hey. Hold off on the advanced questioning there, mister." I furrow my brow in concentration, but only draw blanks. "I can't be sure, but putting two and two together…" My eyes drift from the ring to Muir's face a few times. "Maybe we're married?"

He nods slowly. "And the cock rings?"

I shrug. "Dunno. But I had a dream last night where you told me you wanted to see a live sex show."

Some colour returns to Muir's face. "Uh, that wasn't a dream. I said that at karaoke with the boys a few months back."

"Oh, okay." My head starts throbbing again. Untangling my dreams from reality is like trying to herd cats—nearly impossible and kind of pointless. I bounce the ring up and down against my open palm a few times. "So maybe the part where we went into a sex store and bought matching cock rings isn't a dream either?"

Muir shifts in his seat, more colour rising on his cheeks, and clears his throat. "I think I remember you saying something about us getting matching cock rings and then me saying something like they can't be matching because I'd need a larger size."

"What did I say to that?"

He smirks. "Nothing. 'Cause you know it's true."

"Fuck off." I fling what's left of my hash brown at him, but he manages to dodge it. "Do you actually think we are married? Like, legit, legally actually technically married?"

"I have no idea. Maybe we can go back to the chapel and see if they've got any record, or footage, of us?"

"That's a good idea."

He blows out a breath, drumming his fingers on the table. "Any word from Erin?"

"No. Anything from Maisey?"

"Nope." He pops the p.

"Are you ready to talk about it?"

"What's there to talk about? We're over. She doesn't want to marry me."

"Did she say why?"

He tenses up, a wrinkle emerging between his eyebrows. Unlike me, Muir keeps things close to his chest—he doesn't open up until he really knows someone.

I think that explains why we didn't hit it off straight away. I've always been a blabbermouth, Muir's always been more reserved and cautious.

When I confided in him that my twin brother, Lleyton, had drowned the summer before starting year five, it broke through his defences, and it changed the dynamic between us. Even then, though, it still took him a few more months to let me in on the shitshow his mother and fucktard stepfather were putting him through.

We've been thick as thieves ever since, there for one another through all the ups and downs life—and our chaotic families—have thrown at us. So if Muir's hesitating to tell me what happened with Maisey, it's probably because he's still processing it.

"It's okay if you need more time," I assure him. "I'm still working shit out in my own head."

He relaxes a fraction. "Yeah. I do. Thanks… Are you okay?"

"As okay as can be expected." I take a few sips of coffee. "Part of me is still in shock, but…"

"Yeah?"

"Part of me isn't."

"Why's that?"

"Dunno. Something's been off between Erin and me for a while now. We had a massive blowup a few months ago, and even though we worked it out, things haven't been the same."

"Is this the fight about?—?"

"Moving to Brisbane," I finish for him. "It is. Asking a city girl to relocate to a small town is hard." She and I met when I was at a vet conference in Brisbane, and we did the long-distance thing for about six months before she relocated to Scuttlebutt. Outback living ain't for everyone. It was an uphill battle from the get-go.

But our issues ran deeper than just agreeing on where to live. With Erin, like with the handful of girls I dated before her, there's always been something…missing. I can't put my finger on what exactly, but it's this niggling feeling that's always been there in the background.

I gulp down the rest of my coffee. "Should we go find this pop-up chapel and figure out what the fuck we did last night?"

He stares at me for a moment then nods. "Yeah. Let's do it."

"That doesn't sound very legal," I say once the overly exuberant American lady inside the pop-up chapel is done explaining about some bullshit cross-promo tourism campaign between the Gold Coast and Las Vegas.

"Oh, I assure you it's very legal. And you two"—she glances at her laptop—"Mr. Fitzgerald Mortimer Humphrey Eastridge and Mr. Muir Landers are officially married as of 3:25 a.m. today."

I glare at her then scan the tent, checking how close the few people in here are. "Thanks. Now everyone knows my middle names."

My mortifying middle names, because my parents decided they wanted to embarrass their kids from day one, giving them an indication nice and early of what they could expect for the rest of their lives.

She looks up and smiles. "I think they're adorable."

"What's your middle name?" I ask.

Her smile vanishes, and she clears her throat. "Never mind. Anyway, since I'm assuming you've misplaced it, here is a copy of your wedding certificate." She slides it under the plexiglass. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

I blow out a frustrated breath and ask Muir, "Is there anything else we want to know?"

"Directions to the nearest divorce lawyer."

Chapel lady laughs at Muir's sarcasm.

"Thanks. I think we're good," I tell her before we turn around and leave.

It's late morning on a beautiful day so the street is jam-packed with tourists and noise. So much noise. Ugh, and sunlight.

The hangover refuses to piss off, a headache squeezing my skull.

"Need to find shelter," Muir grumbles, as if reading my mind, shading his eyes from the sun even though he's wearing glasses.

"Agreed. Let's go back to the hotel, close the curtains, and turn the air con all the way down."

He smiles. "Sounds like heaven."

We're back in my chilly, dark hotel room, sitting on the couch, wrapped in blankets, phones in hands.

"I think that American lady was right," I say, looking up at Muir, who's gone for full cocoon coverage with his blanket pulled over his head. "This all seems legit."

Muir hit up the old Googs, while I've been going through the official Gold Coast tourism website to dig up more about this cross-promo thing.

He turns to face me, a few curls pressed to his forehead by the weight of the blanket. "Yeah, it does."

He blows out a breath, and I can tell he's not cool with this, and not just because it's looking like it could turn out to be our most serious shenanigan yet. There's something else going on.

I hoist my legs onto the couch and hunch over them. "Are you okay with all of this?"

He angles his body away and stares straight ahead. "Sure."

He isn't.

Whenever he's uncomfortable, he avoids eye contact. Classic Muir move.

"We'll get it sorted once we get back home," I assure him.

"I know."

"Is there anything else on your mind? Something you want to talk about?"

"No."

He's still not looking at me.

A few beats pass.

I can read Muir better than anyone else in the world, and I know there's something he's not telling me. But it was a rough night, and we're both hungover. Completely understand if he needs a bit of time and space to get things sorted in his head.

"What do you feel like doing?" I ask.

We were supposed to spend a few more days here celebrating our engagements, but since that's not happening… Personally, I'd be happy to pack up and go home, but if Muir wants to hang out at the beach or go visit Seaworld or any of the other amusement parks, I guess I'd be down with that.

"Honestly?" He swings his head, and his gaze meets mine. "I just want to crawl into my own bed and stay there for a few days."

I let out a relieved breath. "Same, mate." It was hard as chook nuts to wrangle a few days off from Linus, and I don't intend on wasting them. "Let's pack our stuff and head to the airport."

"Sounds like a plan. Oh, shit. Wait."

"What is it?"

"What do we tell everyone when we get back?"

"How about nothing? You know what people are like. They'll never let us live this down. They're still talking about the time I accidentally provoked an emu when I was fourteen and ended up being chased through town by that stupid, deranged bird."

Some older folks even occasionally call me Emu and then crack up, like it's the funniest thing in the world. It doesn't take much to amuse people in the outback.

"Family and Scuttlebuttians, sure," Muir says. "They don't need to know about this. But what about our friends? Are we seriously going to keep this from Wilby, Col, Linus and Ryde?"

They're not just our closest friends, they're also the guys we work with at the vet clinic, so we see them all the time.

"That is a bit tricky." I think about it but don't have any ideas. "What do you think we should do?"

His eyes dart left to right while he considers it. "Look," he eventually says. "Wilby and Col are getting married next week. Let's maybe keep it under wraps until then. We don't want to steal their thunder."

I nod. "That makes sense." We both peel our blankets off and make our way to the door. "Wait."

Muir stops walking. "What?"

"Are you sure that's the real reason you don't want to tell our friends about us?"

"Uh, yeah." His eyes slide away from me, and a guilty look flashes across his face like the time we tried to nick candy from the local store and got busted by the attendant. "What else would it be?"

I realise the gravity of the situation we're in. We're legit legally actually technically married. But who says I can't lighten things up a little?

I step in closer to him. "You wouldn't happen to want to hold off telling everyone about us because you're embarrassed to be married to me by any chance, would you?"

He rolls his eyes. "Don't flatter yourself. We got married by accident."

"Ouch." I clutch my chest. "Your husband has a very sensitive ego."

"Fuck off."

I latch on to his wrist, forcing him to look at me. "That's no way to speak to the man you're going to spend the rest of your life with."

With my eyes locked on his, I see the exact moment my words wash over him. I'm going for some light-hearted humour to relieve some of the awkwardness of the situation, but Muir doesn't seem to be taking it that way.

His pupils dilate. "You're being an idiot," he says, voice raspy.

Still holding his wrist, I tug him towards me. The smell of the hotel body wash wafts in the small gap between us, but I can't tell whose body it's coming from. Not that it matters. I don't even know why I noticed it. This hangover is messing with me.

Since my attempt at humour is flatlining, I take a different approach.

"Things will be fine," I say, my voice low and serious. "I promise you. We'll get whatever this is sorted out, and nothing will change, okay? It's you and me and just another crazy adventure to add to our ever-expanding list of crazy adventures."

I lean forwards, trying to coax a smile out of him with my eyes.

"Okay." The corners of his mouth finally tip up a little. "You really think we can get this sorted?"

"One hundred percent." I let go of his wrist and place my hand on his shoulder. "I promise you, mate, everything will go back to normal in no time."