Mess You Made

3.

Miguel.

I don't wake up in my own bed with a hangover so rough that I actually, for a minute, contemplate death.

My skull, though, it's rattling like a fucking shaker. And I'm perfectly still. Face down in a mattress, so it really shouldn't be shaki—

And then comes a hand touching my back and the smell of some floral perfume, intermingled with sex. Forcing my heavy head to move, I tilt it just enough so my cheek's against the plush mattress. I take in the scene: ruffled bed sheets, an ornate room and a girl.

Fuck.

I attempt to remember. She just looks down at me with a bemused sort of look, waiting for the cogs to turn. She's around my age, though, thankfully. I distinctly remember because she told me how she's had to wait until she turned eighteen to be signed to her modelling agency.

I don't remember much asides from the usual flashes of a party too chaotic. Jameson and Tito's Vodka, a lot of fucking around, clouds of smoke, the usual debauchery at parties around this side of the city — now leaving me here. With a pounding head and my body that feels like it's been slammed headfirst by a truck.

I flit my eyes up to her, my lips tiredly quirking up just enough for me to say morning, without having to acknowledge that we don't know each other very well.

"Clara." She offers, along with a nice enough smile, doesn't really seem pissed.

"Miguel."

She slips off the silk covers, her eyes amused, "I know."

I manage to roll over onto my back, running a hand down my face. Fuck, it feels like I need an hour long shower and a three day recovery for whatever the hell took over me last night.

Glancing around, however, I'm back at the apartment so it must have meant I took her home from that mansion party.

She tilts her head towards the door, pulling a shirt over her head, "I have a meeting."

I force myself up off the bed then, even if my muscles feel like they weigh a ton. In nothing but my boxers, I offer as much of a tired smile as I can muster, "I'll walk you out. Sure you don't want breakfast?"

Clara blinks a shit ton, drawing her eyes down my body in an unabashed manner. Don't mind the appraisal, to be honest.

I run a hand through my hair, "Most I can make is scrambled eggs."

She looks up at me, "What?"

I fight a smirk now, remind her, "Breakfast."

"Oh." Her cheeks go pink, and she rolls her eyes a bit at my smirk in the way girls do when they find you more attractive than they want to, "No. Not hungry."

"Sure don't seem like it—"

She shakes her head, busy pulling up her jeans, "Fuck, it's not my fault you— look like that. I can't believe we—"

I raise an eyebrow, "I don't remember a lot of last night but I'm pretty sure you didn't mind saying the word fuck."

"No. I'm— you're just him. Miguel." She lifts a shoulder, "My friends and I had talked about which one of us would manage a night with you. I had you." She slings a coat around her shoulders, "Is it true you're set for the G-league?"