DESCRIPTION
Remember that time Oliver got completely wasted, hijacked a police car, got a tattoo, punched a priest, and got married to an infuriatingly hot stranger? Yeah, he doesn't either.
CHAPTER ONE
"Listen," Charlie said, "You've been locked up in this hotel room for God knows how long watching-oh my god, is that Titanic?"
"No," Oliver lied, and then he added, defensively, "It was on, okay? Go away."
"You've hit rock bottom, lil' bro," Charlie pressed her lips together, staring at Oliver with her weird, squinty eyes, and then she clasped her hands together, "Get your pathetic ass up. We're going out."
----------------
It's not everyday you wake up in a tangle of ripped up bed-sheets, an Abercrombie-worthy, possible-supermodel lying in bed next to do you with his junk out on display, and your head pounding like the drums in those old-timey scary movies when someone's about to round the corner, but when you do, your name is probably Oliver.
And because it's not every day that Oliver gets to goggle at naked men in his bed, and goggling is obviously (and yet, stupidly) not the first thing he thinks about doing when he wakes up next to that, he handles it the way anyone probably would.
If you can call letting out a very unmanly squawk and trying to scramble out of the bed until your foot getting stuck in one of the holes in the sheet so that you end up landing face first on the floor "handling it".
Oliver doesn't even have time to register his own embarrassment, though, because before he can even think what the fuck, the fuck in question is sprawled out next to him, arching his back and groaning in result in his own fall.
Oliver gawks at him, his eyes wide and unable to keep from flickering back and forth from the scrunched up face to below the belt and then back. He then, finally, manages to keep his gaze on the guy's face long enough to ask, "Who the fuck are you?"
The guy's eyes snap open, and this time it's his eyes doing the wandering. Thank God Oliver's wearing boxers, at least, because he is so not in the mood for playing Is Your Dick Bigger than a Supermodel? "Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you?"
Oliver huffs in response. "I asked you first."
"Oh, okay, wow-give me a second while I magically transport myself back to the third grade."
Mr. Hot and Ready sits up, rubbing at his back and moaning like he just gained an extra pound or something. "What the hell happened last night?"
"I don't know," Oliver grumbles, pushing himself up off the ground with his hands, "I can't remember anything."
"Yeah, me neither," he says, swiping his hand across his face in obvious frustration.
Oliver holds out his hand, a peace offering, but the guy just rolls his eyes and, ignoring it, gets up without Oliver's help.
"Why are you wearing a plastic ring?" He asks, pushing past Oliver, picking up articles of clothing off the floor as he goes.
Oliver shrugs, examining his hand where a red, fake ring sat on the finger next to his pinkie finger. Twisting it, he pulls it off, leaving a pale line on his finger, and then tosses it to the ground.
Then it hits him.
"Wait a second, we didn't like-"
The guy shoots him an annoyed look. "Don''t be such a cliche. It's not legal here."
