Knot So Lucky (Destination Love, #1)(2)

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?”