The Little Black Dress (Love in Las Vegas)

Am I Dead?

Sophie

“Am I dead?” I mumble with a groan as consciousness hits me like a freight train.

There must be a tiny man wielding a sledgehammer in my head. There’s no other explanation for the throbbing, sharp pains pounding in my skull. I slowly push myself upright and peel my eyelids apart as I try to find my bearings.

Looking around through squinted eyes, I realize I’m on Ava’s couch. I must’ve passed out here last night after…

“Ugh,” I groan, as flashes of memories flicker through my mind.

So much booze. Too much.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

I lift my head slowly to see Ava walking toward me with two steaming coffee mugs. Handing one over, she sits down next to me and blows across the surface before taking a sip. The scent of coffee wakes me up a bit, and I carefully sip mine with a contented sigh.

Just the way I like it—heavy on the cream with plenty of sugar.

“Thank you,” I croak, then clear my throat. “And thanks for letting me crash here.”

“You should be thanking me,” she says meaningfully. “Your snoring kept me up half the night.”

I snort, then regret it as fresh pain lances through my brain.

“I do not snore,” I say, taking another sip of my salvation.

“You do when you’re drunk,” she says with a chuckle. “But I was just kidding. It didn’t keep me up. I passed out almost as soon as Zoey dumped me into bed.”

“She didn’t stay?” I ask, slowly turning my head toward the kitchen to see if she’s in there.

“No. Her brother waited while she brought us up, then took her home.”

I tighten my grip on my mug, then flinch.

“Shit, why does my finger hurt like this?”

Ava laughs. “You poked that guy at The Black Hart in the chest, then spent the rest of the night poking things to see if you could find something as equally hard. Doors, windows, random strangers on the street.”

“I did not,” I say, my mouth falling open.

“You did,” she says on another laugh. “And you didn’t find anything quite as hard as his pec.”

“Oh, my God,” I mutter, my eyes falling closed.

“Was that really the man who won the painting?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I sigh, more details coming into focus. “Why’d you let me confront him like that?”

“Like anyone could’ve stopped you?” she says, giving me a side-eye.

“That’s fair,” I say, deflating.

I’d been drunk and full of righteous indignation. No one could’ve stopped me from confronting the asshat who basically ruined my life.

“Ava, what am I going to do?” I ask, not caring how whiny or pathetic I sound.

“You’re going to pull up your bootstraps and be the badass you’ve always been,” she says. “Time to pound the pavement. You’ll find another job. I’m sure of it.”