A/N - No, your eyes aren't deceiving you. This is for everybody who has stuck with me all this time. If enough of you are still interested I'll get to work on the rest. I already have some of the next one done and I want to finish - it's so close to the end! Enjoy...

The blinding light of the sun easily penetrated the tall glass window of the hotel room. The curtains hadn't been drawn the night before. Clothes lay scattered across the floor; a red tie hanging off the back of a chair, a skirt, scrunched and kicked to the side of the bed. Paul Levesque slowly opened his bleary eyes. The air was hot and thick, causing the sheets to stick to his clammy skin. His head was spinning dangerously and he closed his eyes, desperately needing a moment to let his stomach settle from his slight movements. It didn't work. He began to sweat, tiny drops slipping from his forehead and in an instant, his stomach lurched. He was going to be sick.

Paul swallowed the horrible lump back down his throat and threw the covers off. The hot air clung to his body as he staggered to the bathroom and emptied his guts in a retching, heaving mess. His hands were shaking when they grasped the toilet bowl and he was breathing heavily, his lungs desperate for fresh air. Air con. He needed to turn it on before he melted. Confident that he wasn't going to throw up again, he uneasily got to his feet and caught his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot with heavy bags underneath them while his skin was a sickly pale color. What the hell had happened to him? His still shaking hands reached out and turned on the faucet to throw some cold water onto his face. It hit him like a ton of bricks and he inhaled sharply, the cool water shocking his senses. Letting the water drip from his face, his eyes darted around the tiny bathroom and immediately narrowed in confusion. He didn't recognize anything in here. In fact, there was nothing in there at all apart from the standard hotel amenities. Now that he thought about it, what was he even doing here and why the hell did he feel like a sack of shit? Had he been drinking? If he had he must have drank enough to sink a ship because he couldn't ever remember feeling like this in his life. The room was slowly spinning as he walked back into the main area and frowned at the sight before him. It was a complete mess with clothes strewn all over the room and empty bottles littering all the tables. Fuck. He had been drinking. His eyes were drawn to what appeared to be a thong hanging off the end of one of the bottles next to him. The silk was soft against his fingertips as he held it in his hands and looked at it with a frown on his face. He didn't recognize this. In fact, this entire scenario felt very wrong to him. He didn't even know what fucking day it was nor why was he in a hotel room having very clearly gotten piss face drunk the night before?

It was then that he noticed the feet poking out of the bottom of the white sheets. He cautiously walked towards the bed, his stomach once again in knots as an uncomfortable sensation gripped his entire body. He tugged the top of the blanket down as softly as he could and immediately felt sick again at the sight before him. A woman was lying face down in the pillows, her shoulders rising and falling with every deep breath but Paul didn't need to see her face to know what he had done. The woman was blonde. The woman wasn't his wife.

"Shit."

The word was uttered so softly it was barely audible. Paul stood there in disbelief. A horrible sensation that started in his toes and travelled up through his body brought on another wave of sickness. He lifted a shaky hand and grasped at his mouth.

"No."

Breathing heavily, he slowly let his arm drop from his face. He stood there glued to the spot. The feeling in his stomach, in his chest, in his heart, felt more painful than anything he had ever known.

"No," he uttered again. The longer he stood there the more it started to sink in. It was obvious what had happened here. He was a rotten bastard who had just fucked his assistant and cheated on his wife. "Oh my God," he choked on the words and ran for the bathroom, immediately throwing up yet again. His body was shaking, forehead sweaty and limbs weak. It was hard to understand how this had happened. He couldn't remember anything. His last memory was Amber kissing him and…

Oh God.

She had kissed him.

She had kissed him and now he was waking up with her in his bed. Despite the obvious, there was something deep down telling him that this wasn't right. There was something else, something he was missing. But he was in too much of a state to see sense. With shaking hands he wiped the back of his mouth and moved to the sink. He gripped the white porcelain until his knuckles turned white and stared at himself in the mirror again. He looked ten times worse than he had the first time.

The cool water brought no reprieve as it splashed against his face. Paul hurriedly dried off and burst back into the bedroom. He didn't care if he woke her, he just needed to get the fuck out of there or he was going to be sick again. In record time he was dressed, a hastily stuffed roller suitcase in his hand, and without a second glance he stumbled out the door. It didn't dawn on him that Amber hadn't moved a muscle while he made a racket picking up his things. The room was a mess and he could barely look at any of it. He needed to get away.

"Checking out sir?"

"What?"

The concierge stared at the tall man before him strangely. He was haggard, his tie haphazardly hanging from his neck, shirt untucked and sullen face. It was a far cry from the immaculately dressed man who had checked in a day or so prior. "Are you checking out?" He tried not to stare at the larger mans visibly shaken state.

"Yes," Paul mumbled. "Yes….I'm checking out. Thank you…"

"Would you like a statement?"

"No," Paul almost yelled. "No….just….no, it's fine. I have to go." He kept walking, his feet carrying him although he didn't know how. He felt like he was walking on jelly legs. When he walked outside and the sun hit his face a sickening lurch developed in his stomach.

"Good morning Mr Levesque!"

Paul took deep breaths and tried not to vomit. By chance his driver was standing there waiting with the car. He had no fucking clue what time it was and practically jumped in the back seat.

"To the airport sir?"

"Yes. Yes, please just drive."

"Uhhh, right away sir. We won't be long. I'll call ahead and inform the pilots that you're on your way."

"Yeah."

As he sat there, his body still trembling, Paul let his head roll back against the expensive leather head rest and closed his eyes. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real. How could it when he could barely remember how it even happened? He furiously tried to recall everything that had happened yesterday. It had been Thursday. The tapings had gone exceptionally well. Nothing outside the ordinary had happened. Nothing different. He had traveled back to the hotel with Amber and she had asked him if he wanted to have a drink. It wasn't unusual for them to grab a drink after the show. Usually Regal or a few others joined in but not this time. This time it was just the two of them. He could remember agreeing to one drink. He could remember Amber kissing him. He could remember pushing her away…

Yes.

He had pushed her away. Why would he push her away if he wanted to…to…to sleep with her? And if he did sleep with her then why had he pushed her away? Everything that happened between the hotel bar and waking up was gone. It was like it was completely erased from his mind. He didn't understand it. With a hateful flare in his gut, his mind traveled back to the hotel room and started mentally running through what he saw. Bottles everywhere. Clothes everywhere. Sheets on the floor. Pillows on the floor. Amber in the bed.

What the fuck?

"I'm sorry sir?"

"Huh?"

The drifter stared curiously in the rear-view mirror. He was Mr Levesque's usual driver any time he came to Florida and had been driving him for close to a year. In all that time he had never seen him so disoriented or completely out of it like he was now. The man clearly had no idea he was talking to himself so he just shrugged it off. "Are you…ok?"

For the first time Paul actually looked at the other man. He saw a brief reflection in the mirror and physically cringed. "I'm fine. I'm fine, Jim. Just…get me to the airport."

"Of course." With a concerned look on his face, Jim gripped the wheel tighter and continued driving while Paul sat there and tried to stop himself from falling apart.