Summary: On Saturday morning, Bella wakes up to a broken hand, a trashed apartment, and no memory of what caused either of them! When the photos show up on-line, Bella must figure out what—and who—she might have done last Friday night. AH, fun/fluff
Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended.
Thanks to araeo and duskwatcher2153 for betaing this entire story in one go! You guys rock! The banner (by the awesome Tkegl) is on my profile page.
A/N: This is something that's a bit random, totally silly and just for fun. A crazy plot bunny attacked me the first time I heard Katy Perry's new song Last Friday Night. Call this one a bit of a mystery, kind of like a game of Clue in the spirit of The Hangover. A who done it, or maybe more aptly, a What the hell did I do? caper. Post-drunken hijinks to ensue…
Last Friday Night
Saturday May 7, 2011
I come to slowly, same as always—I'm not a morning person—but it doesn't take long for me to realize that something most definitely isn't normal this morning.
The birds that wake me up every day sound as if they are screeching into a megaphone that's aimed directly at my ear. I'm miserably hot and my head is throbbing painfully. All of my limbs feel as if they're strapped to the bed—despite my half-hearted attempts, I'm completely unable to move. My mouth is desiccated, revealing that I did some really heavy indulging last night, and the bad taste that accompanies the dryness lets me know that I fell into bed without brushing my teeth first.
I smile ruefully. It was one hell of a party...
My grin quickly morphs into a confused frown as I realize that everything about last night is nothing but a blacked-out blur. I can't remember anything beyond the first few drinks at Ben's apartment. Granted, I was already pretty tipsy when I arrived, but that's no excuse. I try hard to recall the details—hell, any detail—but…
I draw an absolute blank.
What. The. Hell?
With a groan, I attempt to pry my eyelids open. There's an uncomfortable pull followed by a painful crunch as my eyelashes come unglued from one another. Great. This means I didn't wash my face either. One of those damn crusties somehow works its way inside my still-closed eyelid, causing even more pain. Raising my hand to rub the offending sleep from my eye, I bash the bridge of my nose and my forehead with something bulky and hard. Very hard. So hard, in fact, that light flashes in my eyes.
"Ow!" I groan. "What the hell?"
My eyelids finally pull apart, but another painful flash of light causes me to shut them quickly. Or maybe I'm still seeing stars from whatever it was that clunked me on the head. Hell… I have no fucking clue. Either way, my head hurts like a bitch—the throbbing has intensified ten-fold. So, I roll to my side, burying my head in my pillow in an attempt to make it all go away.
No such luck.
While my sense of sight has been shut off—the light is now blocked—my other senses are in hyper drive. I feel dizzy and nauseous. Wait… I'm not dizzy, I'm spinning. I think I must still be drunk! As I lay face-down, the spinning begins to get worse. I'm definitely feeling sick now. In an attempt to calm my churning stomach, I take a deep breath, but unfortunately, my sense of smell chooses this exact moment to kick in. An unfamiliar scent tickles my nose. Under normal circumstances, I'd probably find it pleasant, but this morning, the spicy smell only upsets my obviously-delicate digestive system even further. When I feel a disturbing rumble, I realize that I have about thirty seconds to make it to the bathroom before the contents of my stomach make an inopportune reappearance. Rolling awkwardly from the bed, I stumble to the bathroom.
I make it in time. Barely. But afterward, when I raise my hand to wipe my face, stars once again dance across the back of my eyelids.
"Ow!" I groan again.
Now that my eyes are open, I look down at my arm. Everything's still a little blurry, and I frown at first, confused by the bright blue club that's taken the place of my hand. Then I register that it's not only my head that's throbbing; my hand hurts. Badly. My vision, and my mind, slowly clears.
Is that a fucking cast?
I take a closer look. Yup, it's definitely a cast. Funny… I don't even remember getting it, but several people have already signed it.
I'll ask again: What. The. Hell?
I continue to stare in fascination at the plaster encasing my arm and hand. From the look and feel of it, I fractured something. In fact, now that I'm focusing on it, the pain begins to intensify; my wrist and thumb hurt like hell. Luckily, it's my left hand; finals start in a little over a week, and I'm right handed.
Wait… How is this lucky? What am I thinking? I might actually have been able to get out of finals if my right hand was broken and I couldn't write. Damn it! This figures. Clumsy Bella can't even break something right.
I shake my head ruefully, but that's a mistake. The throbbing behind my temples resumes, and the whole room fuzzes out of focus when my tender brain sloshes around inside my skull. I groan in abject misery, then awkwardly push myself to my feet and stagger to the sink in order to brush my teeth. When I glance to the mirror, it's even worse than I expected. A deranged raccoon stares back at me. Or maybe it's Alice Cooper. Either way, I still look like road-kill, which is fitting, seeing as that's how I feel. My red-rimmed eyes are surrounded by big, black, smeared circles of eye make-up-gone-horribly-wrong, and my hair is a matted bird's-nest atop my head.
What the hell did I do last night?
After finishing my teeth, I grab a washcloth and attempt to repair the train-wreck that my face has become. I even have to wipe up a few mascara streaks that trail all the way from my cheeks to the base of my throat. Guess it's a safe bet to add crying to the list of no-no's that I partook in last night.
As I clean my neck, I glance down to the clothes that I'm wearing. The T-shirt is one of my favorites, but the shorts? I haven't worn them in years. In fact, the only time I've ever worn these shorts was to the weight-lifting class that I mistakenly signed up for in the fall of sophomore year. It only took one class for Coach Clapp to rectify that error; after I dropped a dumbbell on one of his star athletes, he signed a waiver to excuse me from any further athletic courses. These shorts have been relegated to my 'in case of emergency' drawer ever since. Why the hell would I put them on?
I usually sleep in silky lingerie from Victoria's Secret.
Once I've removed as much of the caked-on make-up that I can with soap and water—and only one hand—I return to my bedroom. One look around and my vague sense of confusion explodes into full-blown anxiety. The tank top and skirt that I was wearing last night are both lying on the floor next to the bed. My bed has clearly been slept in by more than one person. An extra blanket—one that I neveruse—is crumpled atop the comforter, and there are head-indentions in both pillows. That second pillow is a source of morbid fascination. As if in slow motion, I cross the room and pick it up. The spicy scent I detected earlier wafts from the pillow in overwhelming waves that threaten to knock me down. No doubt about it, it's cologne. Men's cologne. I take another sniff, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply, and amend my impression: really sexy men's cologne.
What the hell is men's cologne doing on my pillow?
I haven't had a guy spend the night in months. My vagina has been doing a stellar impression of the Sahara ever since I broke up with Mike over Christmas. Not that it was really that much better before we broke up. But I digress. Is it possible that my dry spell ended last night and I don't even remember it?
Running my hand over my body, I take stock. I don't feel like I had sex last night. Nothing's sore in that delicious way that usually signifies a good roll in the hay. But my underwear appears to be missing, and when my eyes dart to my bed-side table, I notice that the top drawer is open, and the strip of condoms that usually remains hidden deep within is now lying on the floor.
Over the pounding in my temples, I suddenly register another throbbing noise coming from the front of the apartment. Music. Alice must be up. Turning away from the scene of the crime, I hurry towards my bedroom door. Alice and I have one of those apartments that's great for roommates—two bedrooms, each with an en-suite, situated on opposite sides of the den. No shared bedroom walls, which is good when you have a boyfriend. Unfortunately, that hasn't been an issue lately for either of us. Until last night. About which I have no memory. I only hope that she does.
I fling my door open, and all questions for Alice flee my mind as quickly as a whore falling to her knees. Only in this case, there's a good possibility that I might actually be the whore. The throbbing bass of the dance music that's blaring from the stereo has nothing on the pounding pulse that now races through my entire body.
"Alice!" I screech. When she doesn't immediately appear, I yell again.
Over the music, I hear a thump. Her door wrenches open and another victim of road-kill in Alice's clothing appears. Her eyes are half-shut, and she looks just as rough as I did a few minutes ago.
"It's Saturday morning, Bella, and I'm trying to sleep. What the hell do you…" Her voice trails off, mid-question, as her eyes finally focus. Like me, she is stunned into silence.
"What. The. Fuck?" she gasps.
"I know right?"
A tornado has blown through our house overnight. Our kitchen chairs are now scattered throughout the den and couch cushions litter the floor. Empty beer bottles line the kitchen counter, and it appears as if each one of our glasses has been used. The meager bar consisting of one bottle each of rum, vodka, and peach schnapps is now bone-dry. A deck of cards and the random items of clothing—a sock, a belt, a pair of boxers, and oh, is that my missing bra?— scattered around the coffee table suggest that someone was playing strip poker. At least my missing panties are nowhere to be seen, thank God.
Alice and I stare at each other over the destruction that used to be our den.
"What the hell happened last night?" she asks, obviously as confused as me. "Did we get robbed or something?"
"You don't remember?"
"I have no fucking clue."
A/N: Hope you enjoyed the first installment of HangoverBella. This one is all fun and fluff, and I had a blast writing it!
As indicated above, this story is complete (10 chapters) and has already been beta'd in whole. I'll try my best to post every day, but I am in my final two weeks at my current job and things are a bit crazy, so it may be every other day on occasion.
I will be tweeting teasers for future chapters. Come play with me: KristenLynn1121
Thanks for reading!