Knot so Lucky (The holidates series Book 2)

eleanor

She’s yelling. My older sister, Samantha, is actually yelling at me.

I don’t think she’s done that since we were kids.

Admittedly, I just texted her that I got piss drunk in Las Vegas and married a total stranger. So, yeah, this sudden call and her head-splitting tone aren’t exactly a shocker. But still, I didn’t anticipate how mad she’d be.

Because it’s loud, mad. Her voice is slicing my brain open. She’s too loud for the delicate balance I’m barely holding on to. That balance between wanting to puke my guts up or just giving up and finding a bench to sleep this hangover off, hobo-style.

I pull my cell away from my ear as I navigate through people with fanny packs and cheap tropical shirts. All of them milling about in the middle of the busy casino floor like forgotten Sims players.

“Excuse me,” I breathe to some random dude holding a three-foot-tall drink before— Oh. My. God.

My eyes blink quickly, my mouth falling open as I try to ignore the glance I just got of myself in the reflective side of the slot machine.

“Excuse what?” my sister rants, thinking I’m talking to her. “Excuse you for making the single stupidest decision of your life?”

“Give me a break. Marrying some rando you just fucked is like a rite of passage in Vegas. There are movies made about it. I’m not the first, and I won’t be the last. But holy shit…Sami. If you could see what I see right now—”

I can’t even finish my sentence because I’m chuckling. Jesus Christ. I look like a clown who’s been fucked three ways from Sunday. My shoulder meets my ear, sandwiching my phone and also freeing my hand so I can lick the pad of my finger and attempt to rub the black spread of mascara from underneath my eyes.

“Listen to me. I’m a mess—I’ve been walking through this whole-ass casino in a white bodycon button-front dress short enough to show off my liver. And most of the buttons in the middle are missing. Don’t ask. I’m having to hold it closed, otherwise, my entire stomach will show—I’m a poster child for that Katy Perry song ‘Waking Up in Vegas.’”

She doesn’t let me finish, cutting me off.

“Be serious, Eleanor. For the love of god, why are you making jokes?”

I roll my eyes as last night’s faux red bottom heels click a bit faster on the shiny floors.

“Sami, stop overreacting. It’s not that serious because—”

She still doesn’t shut the fuck up.

“How did this happen? Please tell me this wasn’t your idea.” Her voice switches to panic. “Wait, were you drugged? Oh my god.”

“Are you crazy?” I laugh.

“Are you?” she huffs. “You married some guy you just met in Las Vegas. What do you expect me to think?”

“Not that I’m involved in some secret scheme to drug girls into marriage. Because we all know guys are just desperate to get to the altar. Stop watching those crime shows, weirdo.”

I can’t help but laugh because she’s about to go from lecture to holy shit, from big sister to a co-conspirator, in about two seconds when I say what’s sitting on the tip of my tongue.

“Whatever,” she breathes.

So I hit her with the real tea.

“Plus, it’ll be fine because he’s not just some guy, Sami… He’s Crew Matthews—the quarterback for the fucking Las Vegas Raiders.”

This bomb is particularly hilarious for two reasons: one, our father is a die-hard 49ers fan, so my pussy committed treason last night, and two, my sister is in a poly relationship, and one of her boyfriends is a Hall of Fame quarterback.

“I mean, what are the chances? This is wild, right?” I add, grinning ear to ear over the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

I hold my breath, waiting for her to explode. I can already picture her face. Shock and awe plastered all over it.

The silence feels like forever.

But then her voice thunders over the line, louder than all the slot machines I’m surrounded by.

“Shut the fuck up. Lies. Holy fuck. Dad’s going to kill you. You’ll need to change your name to Julia Roberts because your ass is sleeping with the enemy.”

“I know,” I squeal, laughing harder as I pass a wall of mirrors and get the full picture of my appearance.

Jesus. The back of my head is matted and sticking up like a broken-ass version of a bouffant. I can’t even look at my outfit because it’s worse than it feels. I knew it had to be bad, but I look crazy.

And my mouth… God, why did I wear red lipstick? The remnants left staining my face should be renamed blow job instead of starlet. It’s fucking smudged all over my mouth.

My eyebrows raise because if this wasn’t real life, it would be the opening of a very funny movie.

I swipe my thumb around my mouth, only able to remove some of the smeared red before I give up and keep walking.

“Oh my god. The back of my hair looks like when you made me go to that wacky goat yoga class, and we did that pose called plow. I’m that—minus the hay.” My voice drops to a low whisper. “And remember how one of those little furry assholes rammed me in the ass? I’m pretty sure that happened again last night too…multiple times.”

I squint, trying to remember the hazy parts of last night. Damn. There was too much alcohol.

“I think I may have fucked his friends. My memory’s not my friend right now. I can’t tell if it was a dirty dream or reality. I need coffee and a nap. And maybe an STD screening.”

Another chuckle brims as I run my fingers through the matted mess I call hair. But my sister isn’t laughing. My brows draw together just as her words are cracked like a whip.

“Bangs.”

I gasp, immediately stopping my trek through the casino. A full fucking stop just to answer her insult. Because that’s exactly what that word is.

“Bitch,” I hiss. “This is not bangs. How dare you call me a copycat. I didn’t even know you got bangs when I got bangs.”

She almost chokes her words out.

“The fuck you didn’t. I sent you a picture of myself, and then you went out and did it too.”

“Whatever. Maybe that’s true,” I huff, completely unwilling to own any of that, like a true little sister. “But dicks aren’t bangs. I didn’t copy you because I only fucked three dudes…allegedly. I breathe too, or have you trademarked that as well?”

She mockingly repeats my words as if I sound like a thirteen-year-old boy, making me grin harder. But I keep going.

“Don’t be sour because you can’t add. You’re fucking four dudes simultaneously—I allegedly did three. And I married one. Not the same. Way to be down for the sisterhood, ho… I would’ve thought getting double-dipped on the reg by your boyfriends would lead to a looser hole…but you’re still soooo tight.”

“You’re such a little twat.” She laughs.

I slide past a group of middle-aged guys with jerseys, all staring at me like cartoon wolves staring at a steak. Gross. So, I ignore them, continuing with my sister.

“I’m starting to think we must have some crazy-ass genetic disposition. They say kinks are inherited. That means Mom’s probably doing the whole cul-de-sac. This is an epidemic. So you need to get it together, narcissist, because not everything’s about you. It’s about me.”

She howls, and I follow suit as she throws out, “You’re a dummy. And disgusting. And I’m telling Mom you said that.”

“I’ll hold you underwater like that scene in Basic Instinct. I’ll be like, ‘Shhh, go to sleep.’”

“Psychopath,” she jokes.

I look up at the directional signs, turning around, trying to figure out where I’m going as I counter.

“Nah, sociopath…I’ll feel no regret,” I breathe out absentmindedly, looking around, adding, “Damn, these casinos are like mazes. How the hell do I get out of here?”

Sami’s talking, but I can’t hear her past the whirl of the machines and some people celebrating. What the fuck? Where is the exit? I turn another hundred and eighty degrees, looking for divine intervention, but nothing.

“Fantastic,” I huff. “I’ll be stuck here forever with all this lipstick around my mouth that makes me look like I did when I was nine and wouldn’t stop licking a circle around it. Remember that? The skin chapped into a big red ring. I looked like I had an asshole on my face every time I puckered…I’ll be Eleanor Assmouth again.”

I chuckle to myself, pulled from my thoughts as Sami playfully snarks, “I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself. Jesus Christ, this shit only happens to you.”

I’m nodding, even though she can’t see me.

“I am the epitome of a walk of shame. I expect a trophy. If getting railed and smelling like sex was an Olympic sport, I’d get gold. Because there is no amount of cigarette smoke in this casino that could rid me of the smell of whore and unwanted pregnancy.”

“You didn’t use protection?” she shrieks.

The fake sound of coins spilling into a metal bucket rings out. The combination makes my head pound again.

“Sami,” I breathe out with a groan. “That tone makes me hate your whole face. Make your voice go away. It was a joke, dummy. Of course, I used protection…I think.” Before she can say anything, I add, “No, we did. I distinctly remember buying condoms that looked like poker chips. Because when they rolled them on, I yelled jackpot.”

“Liar. I can’t believe you raw dogged it.”

I laugh. “Shut up, lunatic. We exchanged records on our phones like normal people in the 21^st century. But poker chips sound amazing, I should trademark that.”

My eyes tick up, finally seeing the exit sign just as the crowd in front of me parts. I swear to god I hear angels sing because—doors. Big, beautiful glass doors. I let out a relieved breath.

Samantha chimes in again.

“B.T. Dubs. Where the fuck is Millie? I thought you guys went out there together?”

“Ah yes, the bestie. Best guess? She’s tonsil-deep on a DJ’s turntable…if you get my meaning. He’s a douche, but she likes him. Plus, our room is a hep B containment center.”

I take a few quick steps, attempting to slide out between the massive doors, but a bald, potbellied dude gets in the way and doesn’t move fast enough, so they close.

I look down at myself. Shit.

Improvisation is required between holding my dress with one hand and squeezing my phone between my face and shoulder. The debate in my head only lasts seconds before I spin around and use my bottom to push it open. My heels dig into the concrete, making an awful scuffing sound as I get through. I spin off the glass, stumbling a few steps before righting myself.

“What are you doing?” my sister asks as I huff breathlessly before I answer, “Persevering.”

“Holy shit,” I gasp, causing eyes to dart in my direction, but I ignore them as the door closes behind me, taking with it the glorious air-conditioning. “Why is it so hot at six in the morning? It’s freaking scorching my skin, and I’m under the porte cochere.” I squirm where I’m standing, feeling like I’m already sweating. “This place is hell. It’s probably why it’s so fun.”

“Well, you might want to try to acclimate,” Samantha snarks. “We both know you were always headed there.”

I look up and down the valet area for the Uber pickup, squinting as I say, “Too bright. Need glasses. Jesus, this is assault. The sun should be charged with first-degree battery.”

I drop my head, eyes locked on my fist—the one clutched around the fabric of my dress.

Fuck it. Be free.

My entire stomach springs into view as I let go before fumbling through my bag for my sunglasses and slap them on my face.

“Sooo,” Sam breathes. “What’s the plan? I mean…you’re getting this shit annulled, right? Even if he is Crew Matthews.”

“Duh? Like I care who he is,” I shoot out incredulously. “I don’t even know anything about football. You know that. I left him all my info. When he wakes up, we can take care of it. The great thing about Vegas is you can get married and divorced on the same day. Everyone knows that.”

She ignores the important part, blurting out, “Hold up. You snuck out? Whyyyy?”

“Shut up.”

No way. I’m not talking about it. She’s just going to probe me for information until I admit I woke up in a T-shirt that said I’d hit that. That my kitty requires an ice pack as well as underwear—which I still don’t have—and that there’s still enough red on my cheeks to force an admission of blushing.

My nose scrunches as I lift my hair off the back of my neck.

“Sami, I can feel the hot air in the back of my throat every time I speak. It’s like I’m swallowing the sun.” I’m trying to sound serious but failing as I add, “I just can’t answer any more questions right now.”

A loud and far-too-enthusiastic “Eleanor” makes my shoulders jump. She’s like a fucking dog with a bone. Shit.

“Eleanor! You cannot drop tiny little bombs like that. I want to know everything. Literally, from the beginning. Why is my not-even-remotely–shy sister suddenly shy? Dish. Do you have a crush on your future ex-husband? And if you don’t tell me, I’ll call your ex and tell him you slept with his twin…before you guys broke up…and on purpose.”

I suck in all the fucking hot air, gasping again. Because while Sami’s grasping at straws, she’s unknowingly right on target. Sometimes you gotta run a little product comparison.

And those twins were definitely not identical. Unless it’s measured in the ability to find my clit because then, they were the blind leading the fucking blind.

“You are a demon spawn,” I spit, playing along. “And one day, I’ll find your real family and have you returned.”

She chuckles like the witch she is. But we both know that eventually I was going to tell her everything. Because that’s us. Not all sisters can be this cool, but someone has to set the standard.

“Fine,” I hiss, giving in as I look at the valet, mouthing, Uber pickup.

He points to an empty line sectioned off by red velvet ropes. So, I traipse over as I speak, seeing my ride pull up.

“I have to start from the beginning. So don’t interrupt. Pretend you’re choking on dick…we both know you’re an expert at that.”