A sudden thud came from the closet. The door creaked open, and Elias tumbled out, wrapped in a hotel duvet, clutching a bag of ice to his head like a holy relic. He looked at them with wide, bloodshot eyes. "We didn't do anything illegal, right?" Elias asked.
"The wedding is in four hours," Jax whispered, peeling off the goggles. "And I have a receipt in my pocket for... three dozen inflatable flamingos?"
I can pivot this toward a thriller twist or make it even more absurd if you'd like.
He was sprawled on a floor that smelled faintly of pine cleaner and regret. Around him, the remnants of the night lay like a battlefield: a single silver loafer, a half-eaten burrito, and a literal traffic cone wearing a tuxedo vest. This was the aftermath—the living definition of .
Leo sat up, his brain feeling three sizes too large for his skull. "Guys?" he croaked.
The three of them stood, a shaky alliance of headache and mystery, ready to piece together a night they were reasonably sure they’d never be allowed to forget.