Brendon has become a stereotype. One shot.
I caught sight of the unfamiliar wallpaper, furniture, room. My head pounded against my skull sending aches through my body. I tried to piece together the events of the previous night but all that I could remember was blurry images. I heard the ringtone blare once again. This time I recognized it as one different from my own. I looked around and saw the phone being called on the opposite bedside table. That's when I saw the girl sleeping soundly next to me. The well timed rise and fall of her chest was not bothered by the ring. The head beneath her messy mop of blond hair didn't stir or make a single noise.
I didn't recognize her, except her smudgy figure in my recollection of the night became somewhat more defined. But not all of the puzzle pieces were available, so I can't be sure of anything. The only things I knew were the club I went to last night, before the memories got fuzzy, and the curious blond laying in the hotel bed. Once the ringing ceased, I cautiously nudged her with my palm. I took her silky hair and moved it out of it's place where it shielded her eyes.
"Good morning?" I said in my sweetest, least defensive voice. I didn't want to spook her anymore than being awakened by a stranger in a room you don't recognize would scare a normal human being. I was scared, believe it or not. Anxious to how she would react. As many people would be surprised to hear, this was my first time waking up in a room I didn't recognize, and my heart was having convulsions inside my chest. My hand was shaking pushing the gold curtain that was shielding her eyes, gently rocking awake.
There is a certain understood lie that everyone who isn't from Vegas think about people who are. That stereotype is that we hang around shadow filled casinos, waiting to capture the heart of every lonely, innocent girl sitting patiently at the bar. Then we have our one night of passion, then you never hear from us again.
That story comes from the occasional few that actually do that. One girl had been too intoxicated to use good judgement, got picked up by some sleazeball, and justified it by saying, "Well, all the men in Vegas are like this. It isn't my fault." Then one of her friends claimed the same happened to her. The story unfolds that way, from ear to ear to ear. Because there are a few creeps, we are all creeps. Suddenly, all men in Vegas have one night stands. It's a shameful representation that I used to loathe. Until this morning. This morning I am all men in Vegas.
"Who the hell are you?" I heard from slightly chapped lips. I looked into her stormy hazel eyes, with a tint of blue, and her eyelid squinting in confusion around them. I coughed deeply from my throat, as she propped herself up against many pillows, hand clutching to the edge of the sheet. "Funny," I said wearing a sympathetic look, "I was planning on asking you the same exact thing."
She let out an aggravated sigh, and I let her contemplate in silence about the circumstances that led us to the same bed. Slowly she peeked underneath the covers she had balled up in her small first, shifted slightly, and dropped it from her grasp. "Well," she commented in a huff, "At least I've got panties on." I mirrored her movement and blurted, "Same."
"You're wearing panties!?" She exclaimed with bulged eyes, and you could read her thoughts on her face. Who the fuck did I sleep with? I blushed and said, "Well, I am wearing boxers. Which is like panties. For, uh... men." I said, trying to make her feel more comfortable, and I succeeded with her giggle. The room became silent again and she asked me wistfully, "What the hell did we do?"
I shook my head, and looked to the ceiling, as if the stucco would give me the answers. Or maybe I was looking for heaven, although I am sure they don't give advice on how to get out of one night stands. I thought that title and it put shivers up my spine. While searching the ceiling fan for the missing pieces of last night I remembered to tell the girl about the phone's ringing.
She carefully picked up her phone and clicked to her call log. "My boyfriend. 28 missed calls." She declared, in a tone that made me feel the weight on her shoulders. She stood up, dragging the sheet along with her, picking up various articles of her clothing. She held her cellphone in between her shoulder and her ear, and picked up a random stiletto. "Hey Ryan." She said as sweetly as she could, painting on a huge smile for effect, but it immediately faded once she heard his elevated voice over the phone. "No, baby, I'm alright. Just wandered off, got sleepy. Went to a hotel. I am fine."
She didn't sound fine, but it's hard to be convincing when you are draped in a white toga searching frantically for all the elements of an outfit that is strewn across a hotel floor. "What hotel am I at? Well, I am at...." she trailed off, now staring pointedly at me and mouthing, "LOOK!" So I picked up the notepad off the bedside table, and leaned across the bed and put it in her line of sight, "The Hyatt Regency! That is exactly where I am staying." She paused for his reaction, "Five minutes? Okay."
She slid the phone shut and promptly plopped down on the bed, leaving clothes to fall as they may. "This really sucks." She mumbled, as I could see the beginning of dew drops form in her eyes, glistening against the city lights through the paned window. "I'm sorry." I said, and was sincere. This girl was sweet, she had a boyfriend, albeit a pushy one. But I would be a little forceful if my beautiful girlfriend disappeared one night with an excuse that she got sleepy. She, she, she. I slept with her, I possibly ruined her relationship (unless, of course, that Ryan guy is really gullible)(I sincerely hope so) and I didn't know something important. "What is your name?"
"Sydney Price. And yours?"
"Brendon Urie." I slid smoothly. She looked like a Sydney, with her blond waves and hazel eyes, which had gradually changed to a sharp chestnut shade. She was beautiful. Take that, "every man in Las Vegas." I bet you don't think they were beautiful. I bet you didn't think about them at all. I now felt the difference between a mistake and the predator stereotype that looms over The Strip.
"Good to meet you, Brendon." She said with a smirk. I responded coyly, "Something about our attire tells me we already have become quite acquainted with each other."
Sydney let out a burst of laughter against her best judgement, and suggested that we both become decent. She picked up her dress and stiletto, and I slid on my jeans. I watched her as she tried to do something with her lions mane, and failed to anything further than pulling it back in a hair tie that had been on her wrist all night. Suddenly, a knock on the door burst through our contented hustle and bustle. It was only then that I realized the problem. I was in the room she spent the night in "alone." Her panicked expression showed she had noticed that slight inconsistency in her story, and she wasted no time shoving me underneath the bed. From there, I listened to them.
She opened up the door and immediately I saw a pair of loafers walk in, and embrace her golden stilettos. It was hard to picture the entire story from their ankles, and I wasn't particularly fond of his shoes. "I am so sorry, Ryan." I heard her say muffled into what I presumed was his shoulder or jacket, and him return some version of "You had me so worried, Syd." into her hair.
It was a few moments more of hugging until I heard Ryan say with bated breath, "Sydney." I could hear the look of concern on her face when she responded, "Yes, babe?"
"What the fuck is on your finger?" He said, calmly. I tried to reposition myself to see what he was talking about when I heard her mumble some surprised profanity underneath her breathe. Then I saw a glimmer of gold drop to the floor, and the shine of a diamond. The moment the ring hit the carpet, all of the blanks were filled from last night. The drinks. The chapel. The sex. The marriage.
I saw his feet run out of the room, and the slam of a door. I rolled out from my hiding space, and saw Sydney leaning against the door, with a crystal clear tear streaming down her rosy cheek. I wanted to hug her, and try to reassure her that he'd forgive her for getting married to some drunk fool. But I don't think that hug should come from the drunk fool she got hitched to. Instead, I opened the bedside table, and rummaged around for a ballpoint pen. She eyed me curiously through her crying, and I wrote my number on her hand.
Sydney glanced at the digits with a confused and lost stare, and I mumbled. "For the annulment." She nodded, and looked up to the stucco the same way I did when she was first awakening, seeking guidance from either the ceiling fan or the God above. Upon getting none, she wiped away her tears to make way for the new one forcing themselves from her darkened eyes.
"Go make it right." I said, and she nodded feebly. Her ringless hand opened the door and ran after her love, as I fell back on to the bed wondering what the hell I had got myself into. I didn't know where to go next. The yellow pages, to find a lawyer, or whoever undos drunken flukes? Or go drink away my marital problems with the same poison that got me to this situation in the first place? I felt an aching sense of regret and a deeper sense of loathing for the alluring city lights. Not only did I have a one night stand, I got married drunk.
I have become a stereotype. A stereotype sitting alone in a hotel room wondering how his wife is patching things up with her boyfriend. But that's what you get for waking up in Vegas.