Page 90 of Connected

Hudson blinks the tired drunken-drugged haze from his eyes and lifting the pillow, he studies the extremely slim tattooed brunette. “Oh…” he sighs, “that’s Dana. She manages the bar in Noirs. I seem to remember she brought up another case of vodka. I guess she stayed to party.”

“Stayed? What the hell happened here? Oh God, Hudson, what the hell did I—” he swallows nervously. Apprehensive of the answer, he rubs at his face and rakes his hands through his hair as he tries to recall the events of last night. Looking at the microphone laid on the floor next to the couch, he recoils in horror as suddenly he remembers the karaoke machine—being naked and singing YMCA. He also vaguely recalls the phone in Rhys’s hand—which he now prays wasn’t recording. “Oh fuck… Why the hell did I drink so much? Did I fuck her—this Dana girl?”

Hearing her name, Dana rolls over and groans, and Digby can’t help but notice that her enormous breasts have large gold hoops pierced through each nipple. Curious, he’s tempted to touch, but he thinks better of it and instead pulls the pillow over her.

Hudson struggles to remember. A vague recollection causes him to look down, and he notices the purple lipstick marks on his stomach, thighs, and balls. “Uh… no, but I think I might have done. Oh man, she is gonna be so pissed when she wakes because she hates wolves.”

“But you’re a hundred percent sure that—me and you—we didn’t? Do you actually remember anythin’ I did?”

“No, not exactly. Actually, I think you passed out after the waterboardin’ game you invented, then the security guys threw you on here. I’m not exactly sure how I ended up here with you but you were definitely out of it because otherwise, I don’t think Rhys would have been able to do that,” he points to the large smiley face draw on Digby’s body—the eyes on his stomach either side of his dick and a smile drawn in a line across his thighs. “I guess he found the sharpie pen after all.”

“What the… Fuuuck!” Digby stares at the pen-inked graffiti drawn on his naked torso. Not only the cartoon face but the scribbled dick-doodles and the words ‘I love you brother’ in capitals across his chest. “You know, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him. Where is he?”

“I have no idea,” Hudson sighs as his head slumps against the side of the couch and he closes his eyes. “Geez, I need some sleep.”

Digby gets up and searches the office, looking for his clothes. He stumbles towards the desk; his head feels like it’s on fire and his mouth like he swallowed a packet of grit paper. Picking up the large pitcher filled with water and pours some into a dubiously clean glass left on the desk. Immediately he spits it onto the floor. “Urgh… Fuck! That’s not water, that’s vodka. Who the hell filled the water jug with liquor?”

“Oh yeah… that was you, I remember that now. You used it for the drinkin’ game. Don’t you remember any of it? It was funny as fuck when you waterboarded Klaus in the vodka-confession game.”

“Vodka-confession game? Oh, holy fuck! This is bad—very, very bad. I need to go home.”

He grabs up his pants from behind the desk and retrieves a shirt—that actually smells like it’s Rhys’s—from the back of the chair. Finding his shoes, he checks the time; except he doesn’t because his watch is missing, and he has absolutely no idea where it is.

Scattering papers, he lifts the skinny brunette from the couch and searches. With no luck finding his watch—he retrieves his phone and checking it he notices several messages from Zak asking ‘where are you? Are you okay?’ but there’s nothing from Kat.

Curiously, he opens an unexpected video message from Rhys. Auto-play clicks in and he’s forced to watch in horror the short clip of the night before. “Fuck…” he curses and immediately turns it off. Having seen just enough of himself—wearing a pair of sunglasses and standing naked on top of the desk, a microphone in one hand and his dick in the other, he’s belting out a drunken version of Y.M.C.A at the top of his voice.

“Holy hell—I am so gonna kill that fuckin’ asshole.”

Still feeling drunk, he staggers towards the door. The contents of his stomach lurch to the back of his throat and he takes a deep breath. Holding the frame for support opens the office door and steps outside.

The hallway is quiet and empty, and he heads to the elevator taking it the one floor down to the bar below.

Stepping out, the dazzling blue neon stings his hungover eyes and Digby groans. “Oh fuck…”

“And finally he rises,” Rhys grins. “A very good morning to you, brother. Would you like some coffee?”

“What?” Digby squints at Rhys through the hazy blue-blur. Watching as he sits at the bar, sipping from a small espresso cup filled with strong coffee. A plate filled with several bacon bagels in front of him. He’s clean, hair styled, and dressed in an expensive suit with a crisp clean white shirt. The scent of his aftershave indicates he’s freshly showered.

“Wow, brother, I have gotta say, you are one helluva mess. You wanna go upstairs to my apartment and get cleaned up?”

“No,” Digby growls, and grabbing the small cup he drains the hot caffeine. “What the fuck happened up there last night?”

“Oh, you know… you partied, maybe a little too hard. I can’t actually believe you passed out though,” Rhys laughs. “Guess you’ve got no staying power, must’ve been all that dancing did you in,” he cackles another laugh.

“So how come you look so good?”

“Oh, it’s amazing what a shower, several cups of good quality espresso, and a line of Mexican coke will do for you after a heavy night. You want some? It’ll give you a great boost to your day—help you power through.”

“No. You know I don’t do that shit. What I do need is to go home. Kat’s gonna be spewin’ I haven’t been home all night.”

“Hey, is Hudson still upstairs?” Rhys asks.

“Uh yeah. Him and some weird nipple-pierced chick from the bar.”

“Oh, Dana. Yeah, she’s um… not my taste. But hell, I gotta say, I quite enjoyed watching the positions she got Hudson in—I have some great photos. I have some of you too. Oh, and don’t worry, he didn’t really suck your dick—we just posed him that way for the pictures. They look great, don’t you think?” Rhys grins as he holds his phone up and flashes the images in front of Digby.

He snarls and pours another cup of espresso, then grabs a bagel from the plate—stuffing half of it into his mouth. “You do realize people are gonna think that’s you,” he smirks.

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