Dixieland Sushi by Cara Lockwood

Author:Cara Lockwood
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2005-08-31T04:00:00+00:00

By the time Riley can drag me back to our hotel, I am laughing so hard that I have given myself the hiccups. I am leaning heavily on Riley, as my legs don’t seem to be working properly.

In the lobby, we stumble into an all-Elvis wedding. That is, an Elvis impersonator marrying an Elvis impersonator and a Priscilla Presley look-alike.

Elvis is saying, “I do—Thank-you-very-much.”

“Maybe we should get married,” Riley says. “You could arrive at your cousin’s wedding already married, and wearing Elvis muttonchops.”

“It would almost be worth it just to see the look on her face,” I say. “I doubt, though, an Elvis marriage would hold up in court.”

“We do have the Hunk of Burning Love Suite,” Riley says. “It would make a perfect honeymoon spot.”

I stumble and Riley catches me. We are flirting. Yes, definitely flirting. In my muddled state, however, I am having a hard time remembering why this is a bad thing.

In the hotel room, Riley tries to sit me down on a chair but I take him down with me, so that he’s nearly sitting on top of me. I hiccup again—loudly.

“This must be your half-Japanese side at work.”

“What?” I say, playing with the collar of his shirt.

“Your inability to hold your pints.”

“I can hold my liquor just—hiccup—fine,” I slur.

“Ummm-hmmm,” Riley says, doubtful.

“I can,” I protest.

“You wouldn’t last two hours in a pub in England,” he tells me. “Besides, your face is bright red.”

I open my mouth to answer but end up hiccuping again.

Riley laughs and shakes his head at me.

“It’s a good thing I’m a gentlemanly bastard son of the cousin of an earl,” Riley says. “Or else I could take advantage of you.”

Flirting! My heart sings.

“Your lineage changes daily,” I say.

“That’s what my mum says.” He starts to throw some pillows and a blanket on the floor next to the giant heart-shaped bed.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

“Making my bed.”

“What? I have cooties or something?” I ask him.

“If by cooties you mean an alluring female form, then yes, you do,” Riley says.

“Alluring?” I echo, coming close to him, except “alluring” comes out more like “allurringed” in my drunken state.

I throw my arms around him and say, “You’re cute.”

“Thanks,” Riley says.

“I mean it. You’re cuuute.”

I am too drunk to heed the dull warning bell at the back of my head. The one that’s trying to remind me that even though he’s on break from his girlfriend, it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have one, exactly.

The little devil who sits on my right shoulder is telling me to take off his pants, and the angel—the one on the other shoulder, the one who is normally the voice of clear morality and reason—is drunk and shouting for Jell-O shots.

“I think we both have had too much to drink,” Riley says. “And by ‘we,’ I mean ‘you.’”

“I’m just fiiine.”

“I think maybe you should sit down.”

“You’re no fun when I’m drunk. I mean, you’re no fun when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Right, that’s what I meant.”

“Careful,” Riley cautions.

“Why?”

“Because you’re jumping on the bed, and I think you’re going to hit the golden chandelier.

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