When you think about it, hangovers are kind of interesting. They’re your body’s way of calling you an ass**le. Of saying, “I told you so.” You know how I feel. We’ve all been there. My stomach is rolling, my head is pounding, my mouth is dry, and my breath smells as if I just chowed down on a dog-shit sandwich. Yum.

The alarm clock on the nightstand table goes off, music blaring from its speakers, and I’m pretty sure my skull just cracked in two. I roll on my side and breathe out a moan. You don’t feel bad for me, do you? I get that. If you want to play, you gotta pay. Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time. Blah, blah, blah. I slap the button on the alarm and the music fades to a low hum.

I open my eyes just enough to see that Kate isn’t in the bed next to me. My hand moves across the sheets where she’s supposed to be, but they’re cold—meaning she’s hasn’t been here for a while.

I sit up slowly and brace my feet on the floor. My stomach churns like an ocean dinghy during a storm. I rub my temples to try to alleviate the drumming pain. And maybe dislodge a memory. Because I don’t know about you—but I don’t remember a goddamn thing about last night. It’s just . . . blank.

Like a wet sponge on a chalkboard—wiped clean.

Weird. I’m not typically a blackouter. That week Kate left me drowning my sorrows while she hightailed it back to her hometown in Ohio was the only exception. But let’s not talk about that.

I guess . . . I shouldn’t be surprised. Guys are competitive. Put a bunch of us in a room and we can turn anything into a contest. Who can burp the longest, piss the farthest, whose dick is bigger, who can punch the hardest.

Who can drink the most.

Is that what happened?

I stand stiffly and stumble toward the adjoining bathroom. I open the door. A thick billow of steam floats out. The bathroom’s huge—as large as a small bedroom—wall-to-wall Italian marble. The sound of running water echoes from the triple-spouted corner shower.

Behind the blur of the frosted door, I make out the silhouette of a woman—her head tilted back under the spray as she rinses her long, dark hair. She’s petite. Skin tanned and toned, with an unmistakably luscious ass.

Technically, I’m still a Catholic—but if you haven’t figured it out by now, Kate is my deity. Her body is my holy land, her words are my scripture, her pu**y is the altar I’d crawl across burning coals to worship.

My eyes are glued to Kate’s hands as they run over her slick skin for a final rinse. I lick my lips and imagine what she tastes like. Clean and wet. Vanilla and lavender. That’s all it takes. My southern region rises to attention.

Ten-hut.

It’s mind over matter. Or in this case, horniness over hangover. It seems that despite my fragile physical state, the guy downstairs is still cocked and ready for some morning action.

Ha ha . . . cocked . . .

Anyway, I take two steps toward the stall, fully intent on joining my irresistible fiancée. But then the water shuts off. The shower door opens; the dark-haired beauty steps out.

And my heart drops to my feet—like a f**king A-bomb from a World War II fighter plane. Can you hear it whistle?

Big, brown eyes find mine as she reaches for a towel. “Hey, handsome, how are you feeling? You were pretty crazy last night.”

She’s smiling.

I’m not.

You know how, for some people, just a whiff of peanuts can immediately make their throat close up, cutting off their airway? I don’t have a peanut allergy—but now I know how it feels.

They say when you’re dying, your life flashes before your eyes. And I can tell you, with all certainty, that they’re right. I see images of Kate . . . of our perfect little boy. They flicker in my head like a black-and-white silent movie. They’re pictures of the moments we had, of the life we shared.

A life that—without a doubt—is over now. As dead as the goldfish Mackenzie had a few years ago. The one she insisted on bringing to the beach, in her pocket, so he could visit all his fishy friends.

RIP Nemo. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

I know what you’re thinking. What the hell’s your problem? Why all the drama? Why is a little na**d bush making me go all Clockwork Orange bowler-hat psycho?

“Drew? Are you all right?”

The problem, kiddies, is that the beautiful, wet woman standing in front of me—who is obviously well acquainted with me and whatever the hell went down last night?

She’s not Kate Brooks.

You know that saying, “Pinch me . . . I must be dreaming”? Well, kick me in the balls . . . I’m having a goddamn nightmare.

In a rush it all comes back to me, like a montage on fast-forward. Gambling with the boys, dinner, the fistfight, the thong in my mouth, nuzzling the stripper—Lily—at the bar. But that’s all there is. After that last moment, there’s nothing but a void.

A black hole—much like the bullet I’m tempted to put right between my f**king eyes at the moment—would leave.

I thought it was her. Jesus Christ. I thought it was Kate. When I was embracing her, trying to kiss her—I thought it was Kate.

But it wasn’t.

I sit down on the closed toilet lid while Lily wraps a towel around herself—concern lines etched on her face as she watches me. I breathe hard, fast, and my heart beats as if it wants to jump out of my chest and run far, far away from this latest clusterfuck.

What happened? Did the guys pick me up and drag me back to the hotel? I would give my left nut to be able to believe that’s how it went down. But if that’s the case—why is this girl in my goddamn shower, talking about how crazy I was last night?