Well, here is my first original story in nearly a year. Between work and double shifts, I really haven't given much time to writing. Doesn't mean it isn't nagging in the back of my mind, but right now, life is more important. This is going to be a multi-chaptered story that will be continued. I just ask that you be patient.
Now, for the premise: Nursing a broken heart over Strauss's murder, Dave takes his vacation in Las Vegas. Unbeknown to him, Sin To Win has been moved to Sin City, and at his hotel – no less! – and Emily is about to walk thru the door. Throw in a dare, Mai-Tais, a wayward Cupid's bow, and numerous bumps in the road… Could the fifth time be the charm?
Song prompt: "The Last Unbroken Heart" by Patti La Belle and Bill Champlin.
Dedicated to my children. I love you more than you'll ever know, and I'm so proud to have you in my life.
The Last Unbroken Heart
Heavy tapestries covered the windows, but stubborn stray sun streaks still managed to make their way in to the dark hotel room to land on the prone body lying on the Queen-sized bed. Throwing her arm across her face, Emily Prentiss groaned and tried to block the offensive intruder, and her head threatened to explode from that bit of effort. Where the hell was she?
Rolling to her side, her hand brushed against the comforter and froze. Tentatively, she poked the mound and felt what she hoped was a body. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was, though she had no idea how he – or herself, for that matter – got here. But at least he was still warm, and that was one less excuse she would have to come up with should the police start knocking on her door. Naked, hung over, and in bed with a stranger… There was no way she could talk her way out of this one.
Well, with any luck, she could get dressed and leave before her stranger at the moment of need woke with questions of his own that she wasn't going to answer. Oh, God! How could she have broken her self-imposed rule about one-night stands? What could have caused her to chuck everything out the window? He must have been one helluva lover…if only she could remember.
Emily rolled over and groaned. She tried to open her eyes, but it hurt too much to exert even that little bit of effort. In fact, she doubted there was a part of her body that didn't hurt. She couldn't recall the last time sex had left her feeling as though she had finished a NYC Marathon. At least her lover had stamina - too bad there wasn't any left over to share, she quipped to herself.
Mustering every bit of energy she had, she managed to swing her legs over the side of the mattress and sit up. With another groan, she wiggled her toes. No pain. Well, at least something was still working. Now, she would try standing up. Immediately, her stomach lurched from the sudden movement. Oh God! How many did I knock back? Emily thought to herself. At that moment, she forever swore off Mai-Tais prepared by gorgeous body builders masquerading as bartenders.
Squinting in the semi-darkness, she looked down and groaned to herself. She should get dressed, but where were her clothes? A quick scan around the room revealed nothing to indicate their whereabouts. Her thoughts were interrupted by a screaming bladder. Nature's call came first before modesty.
Shuffling slowly to the bathroom, she closed the door and threw the lock. Her guest probably would want to use the facilities too, but she woke up first – besides, he was in her room; he could wait.
An expletive tore from her lips when she turned on the lights, and a hundred hammers banged inside her skull. How could she have forgotten about hangovers? Except, she argued, this was the hangover from hell, and it was kicking her ass.
Relieving herself, she debated taking a shower. At least it couldn't hurt, she reasoned, besides, the stranger could fend for himself. In her alcohol fogged mind, it made good sense. She would wake up, clean up, get the best hangover remedy the dining room had to offer, then she was going to bed for the rest of the week.
Yawning, she turned on the water faucet and began splashing cold water on her face. The shock of cold on her skin helped bring her back to sobriety. Drying her face on a towel, she peered at herself. God, she looked like hell, she sighed before her eyes caught something. She leaned in closer. Was that a hickey?!
"No," she whispered aloud. "Oh God! He gave me a hickey?! How old is this guy?" She examined the mark and cursed. Of course she had to go to bed with some Neanderthal who assumed he had to brand his women – and, of course, he had to do it in an area she couldn't cover with a simple turtleneck. This was going to call for concealer – and a lot of it.
"PG and Jayje are never going to let me live this down," she muttered. "Of all the stupid things…" Her words trailed off as she caught a flash of something out of the corner of her eye. "What in the -?" Stupefied, she looked at the large carat diamond glittering on her left hand. A diamond ring? How did that get there, and what exactly did she do last night?
Bits of memory flashed before her eyes as the pieces slowly fell into place. Then the realization hit her.
"Oh my God! I'm married!"
*******
Coming back to consciousness, Dave Rossi decided he was going to strangle whoever was making the pounding noise that was disturbing his sleep. If he could get the cymbals in his head to calm down for one minute, he was going to give holy hell to his next door neighbour about respecting vacations.
Rubbing his eyes, he tried to lick his lips but his mouth was dry. What the hell did he drink last night, cotton-balls? He should have stayed with Scotch – it was safe and he knew his limits - he never went crazy and woke up with a hangover that threatened to beat him down. Once or twice – okay, just recently - he had drunk himself into a stupor, but he always had valid excuses. Last night was anything but a valid excuse – if only he could remember why.
Moving his legs, he moaned in agony. He didn't know who was responsible for making him lower his guard and tie it on like a sailor back from sea, but if he got hold of her… He tried to pull her image up in his memory, but the strain was too much and vertigo began to set in. Lying back on the pillow, he took deep breaths and tried to calm the churning in his stomach. He needed to get down to the dining room and see if they had a remedy to get him semi-functioning so he could join the living.
Humming filtered in from the bathroom, he smiled. Ah, the woman who helped him tie more than a few on. She was going to answer some questions for him, then he was leaving...unless he could talk her into having dinner with him. What ever she had done to him had to be nothing short of a miracle, because he had never felt so…
Through hangover misted eyes, he glanced in the direction where the brass valet should be, instead, a chair and table stood tucked in the corner of the room. Where were his jeans? Pulling the covers down, he blinked once, then twice. This wasn't his room. Where was he? Where was his penthouse? What the hell happened last night?!
Brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, he felt something cold pass over his skin. "What in the -?" he muttered as his eyes adjusted to the dim room so he could see. Once, twice, he blinked as his brain tried to comprehend the wide silver band encircling his left ring finger.
A second later an expletive followed. He was married! To whom?! When?! Shit! How drunk had he gotten last night? His brain tried to spin non-existent answers to the same questions he kept repeating. He had to get to his room!
He started to jump out of bed when it dawned on him that he was naked. A quick glance downward. This wasn't happening. God help him, Hotch was never going to let him live this down. Of all the stupid things… Hung-over, a wedding band, and God only knew who was on the other side of the bathroom door. Could it get any worse?
"Oh my God! I'm married!" the voice in the bathroom cried out. Why did that voice sound familiar, he wondered before the door was flung open. Dave blinked in surprise. Was that Emily Prentiss standing in the doorway in nothing but a towel? As St. Peter was his witness, from that moment on, he was swearing off alcohol.
"David Rossi, what the hell are you doing in my bed, and what the hell did we do last night?" Emily croaked in a tight voice tinged with anger and fear.
Glancing at the ring on his finger, then at the large diamond on Emily's left hand, he tried to find the right words to explain the moment. Instead, he gave her his infamous charming smile and replied, "Well, Emily, I think we got married."