The perky bartender appears before me, smiling. "What can I get you, Mr. Evans?"

I shrug. "You got anything that will erase the last five minutes from my brain?"

I meant it as a joke, but she smiles thoughtfully. "Actually, I think I have just what you're looking for."

She walks to the end of the bar and retrieves a long-necked, glittery, sparkling bottle. Someone went a little crazy with the BeDazzler. She holds it up. "This is Pandora. It's part of an in-house contest. Eight hundred dollars a bottle. If you're able to drink the entire contents without pa.s.sing out, vomiting, or requiring medical intervention, you win an I DOMINATED PANDORA IN PARADISE T-shirt. And we put your name and picture on the Wall of Studs."

She points behind the bar, where WALL OF STUDS is hung on a glowing neon sign. With no pictures underneath.

"If you fail to drink the contents or engage in any of the aforementioned behaviors, your picture and name are relegated to the Wall of p.u.s.s.ies." She gestures to the opposite wall. Where a s.h.i.tload of pictures hang. Every one featuring some poor slob who's pa.s.sed out or puking-sometimes both. One guy looks as if he's having a seizure.

I stare at the bottle. "What's in it?"

"Our own blend. I can't tell you the exact proof, but I must warn you, it's quite high. So what do you say, Mr. Evans? Up for the Pandora Challenge?"

Here's a fact for you-men will do practically anything for a T-shirt. Free throws till our backs give out, hot-dog eating until our stomachs rupture. If there's a chance to acquire a cheap cotton garment that proclaims our accomplishment? We're helpless to resist.

"h.e.l.l, yeah." I smack the money down on the bar. She hands me the bottle and offers a gla.s.s, which I turn down.

I uncork the top and toast the guys. "Party on!"

The liquid is sweet, warm. Not the bitter, burning taste of most hard liquors. I'm sure that I've got this in the bag. Might as well put my T-shirt on right now.

I look at Matthew, who smiles back. "What's the worst that could happen, right?"

Chapter 14.

Your body's ability to absorb alcohol and still function depends on several factors: weight, liver health, past patterns of consumption. Most adults already have this figured out, but just in case you're one of those who don't know-I'll tell you. There are different levels of intoxication.

First, there's that warm, happy feeling the average person gets after a drink or two. Most could still operate a car safely and, unless you have a low body ma.s.s index, would probably pa.s.s a Breathalyzer. We'll call this buzzed.

Then, in the three-to-five-drink range, some people get a little silly. Talkative. Possibly annoying. You're beyond happy at this point, and even the most mundane events seem hilarious. This is often referred to as tipsy.

Next, there's actual drunkenness. By now, you've lost count of the number of drinks you've had. You could bite a hole through your tongue, but you wouldn't feel it. You're slurring your words, and swaying on your feet. We'll call this s.h.i.tfaced.

The final level of intoxication is completely f.u.c.king obliterated. Coherent thought is pretty much gone. Coordination-nonexistent. And your self-awareness equals that of a fruit fly.

About an hour after popping that cork from Pandora's mouth, I am f.u.c.king obliterated. Moving is a bit of a challenge. It's similar to those nightmares when the ax murderer is chasing you, and no matter how hard you try, you can't get your legs to move? It feels like a thick, invisible force field of Jell-O is encasing my body-every action is slow and strenuous.

Time has no meaning. Apparently the brain cells are dying off so f.u.c.king fast, only short, disjointed moments make it into my actual memory. Like pictures taken with an old Polaroid camera.

As far as I can tell, most of the patrons at Paradise have taken their leave-and my bachelor party has more or less taken over the club.

There's Jack's face, just inches from mine, his mouth open, tongue hanging out, yelling, "Waaaa.s.sssuuuuuppppppp?!" There are Steven and Matthew, behind the bar, throwing bottles to one another, pretending to be Tom Cruise doing the Hippy Hippy Shake. There's Warren, getting striptease lessons from a dancer-trying to swing around the pole and falling.

Like that guy needs another blow to the head.

Then there's all of us-onstage-my arm thrown around Warren's shoulder as we belt out "Making Love out of Nothing at All" by Air Supply, while Steven, Matthew, and Jack sing backup.

Christ Almighty.

When the fog clears next, I'm at the bar, my cheek resting sloppily on my hand. Sitting next to me is the dark-haired stripper who rode me onstage. I know I should know her name, but I can't remember it. She's talking animatedly-her hands moving as fast as her mouth. I only hear every third word or so.

I look at the bottle that's on the bar next to me. It's about three-quarters empty. I shrug-bring the bottle to my lips-and just manage to take a drink. A little of the red liquid trickles down my chin and soaks into my shirt. That's embarra.s.sing-I've never been a sloppy drunk.

". . . so, you're okay with that, right, Drew?"

Hearing my name gets my attention, and I turn toward the sound. Like a dog. "Huh?"

She smiles. "I don't usually do this, but you guys are a lot of fun."

I agree. "Yeps . . . tha's usss. We're the GT . . . yeah . . ."

With a compa.s.sionate smile, she hops off her barstool. "Take it easy with that stuff, handsome."

I try to hold up two thumbs-the universal sign for It's all good-but my fingers don't cooperate. I hold up all ten instead.

She laughs, gives me a high five, and walks away. I sit for a moment. Then-because that's the f.u.c.king genius I am-I decide I want to play darts. I drag myself off the bar stool in search of a game.

This won't end well.

Sometime later-could be three hours or thirty minutes-I realize I'm sitting in a chair, at one of the back poker tables. Five cards are in my hand and a stack of chips is next to me.

I can't feel my face-and for a moment, I fear it might have fallen the f.u.c.k off. I slap my cheeks.

Still there. Awesome.

Across the table, Matthew holds his own cards in his hand. Behind him, a statuesque blonde in a black mesh body stocking is rubbing his shoulders, giving him a ma.s.sage while he plays. Next to Matthew is Steven. He also has cards in his hand . . . and a hot Asian chick on his lap.

Both seem to be at s.h.i.tfaced level, so . . . that explains a lot.

On the stage, Billy Warren strums a guitar he must have pulled out of his a.s.s, singing "Mandy" by Barry Manilow.

My phone vibrates, but when I try to fish it out of my pocket, it jumps out of my hands and onto the floor. I push my chair back and get on my knees under the table to look for it. I find the slippery b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but when I start to stand back up, my eyes land on the bar.

And there is the one of the most glorious sights I have ever seen.

It's Kate.

She's in jeans and a T-shirt and her back's to me, but I still know-I'm certain-it's her. I'm so f.u.c.king relieved, I kind of get a little choked up. I can't explain why, but it feels like it's been so long since I've seen her-G.o.dd.a.m.n ages. Like so much has happened.

I've missed her. And now she's here.

They must have come here to surprise us. What a great surprise! I pull myself up and stumble forward. I wrap my arms around her from behind, pulling her close against my chest. I bury my face in her neck, in her hair, and breathe her in-enjoying the soothing wonder of being surrounded by all things Kate.

Somewhere, in my Pandora-marinated brain, I recognize that Kate smells . . . different.

Wrong.

But I brush it off. Because I'm too stupidly happy to give a s.h.i.t about something so trivial.

I lick my lips and put all my energy into not slurring my words as I whisper in her ear, "I'm so glad you're here. Let's just . . . leave. You and me. They won't notice we're gone. I don't care about any of this stuff-I just want to be with you. I want to go back to the hotel and invent new ways to make you come."

My eyes close, and I skim my nose against her cheek. My hand finds Kate's chin and I turn her face toward me. So I can taste her, so I can press my lips to hers and show her how badly I want her-how much I need her.

But before our lips meet . . .

There's a crashing sound in the distance. A commotion. And a b.i.t.c.hy-sounding voice calls out, "Oh, h.e.l.l no . . ."

My eyes are still closed, and without warning my equilibrium does a 180. Then I'm falling. Into total darkness.

Chapter 15.

Do you see that guy on the bed? The one with the grayish, clammy skin, wearing last night's wrinkled clothes? Nope, it's not a corpse. That's me-Drew Evans.

Not my best look, I admit. But it's the morning after. The time when the piper gets paid. Someone should take my picture-it'd make a great antidrinking billboard. "This is what stupid looks like, kids."

When you think about it, hangovers are kind of interesting. They're your body's way of calling you an a.s.shole. 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-s.h.i.t 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 b.u.t.ton 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 G.o.dd.a.m.n 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 compet.i.tive. Put a bunch of us in a room and we can turn anything into a contest. Who can burp the longest, p.i.s.s the farthest, whose d.i.c.k 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 pet.i.te. Skin tanned and toned, with an unmistakably luscious a.s.s.

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 p.u.s.s.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 c.o.c.ked and ready for some morning action.

Ha ha . . . c.o.c.ked . . .

Anyway, I take two steps toward the stall, fully intent on joining my irresistible fiancee. 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.u.c.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 h.e.l.l's your problem? Why all the drama? Why is a little naked 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 h.e.l.l went down last night?

She's not Kate Brooks.

You know that saying, "Pinch me . . . I must be dreaming"? Well, kick me in the b.a.l.l.s . . . I'm having a G.o.dd.a.m.n 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.u.c.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.