Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Fools rush in

Elvis has left the building

by riaryder 16 reviews

Getting drunk in Las Vegas is never a good idea. Tattoos, Elvis and that sinking feeling

Category: Fall Out Boy - Rating: R - Genres: Drama - Published: 2007-02-23 - Updated: 2007-02-24 - 1108 words


I woke with a throbbing in my head. I gingerly opened my eyes only to close them immediately. The light streaming through the curtains sent poker hot needles shooting through my eyeballs, making me wince. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I tried to swallow, to lubricate my arid dry throat.

"Water!" my whole body screeched at me.

I reached out a hand, patting at the floor beside me. I never ever went to bed after getting drunk without a glass of water. But then, I usually had some recollection of getting to bed. I rolled over and risked opening one eye again. Nothing even resembling liquid came into view. That meant only one thing.

I was going to have to stand up.

Taking a deep breath, I struggled into a sitting position, both eyes opened to slits to minimise the sun's assault on them. I could vaguely see clothes tossed carelessly around the room. And they weren't all mine. It was only then I became aware of the comatose body which occupied the other side of my bed.

No, wait a minute. This wasn't my bed.

I squinted at the dark head which poked from underneath the covers. At least it looked like Pete. So, despite my drunkenness last night I had managed to remove my contacts. Great, now I couldn't see shit.

I sighed heavily. Pete was a great guy, but I had been fending off his sexual advances in the hope of convincing him that I wasn't just some groupie slut. That had lasted all of four weeks then, because all the signs pointed to some vigorous horizontal hula. If my mother knew, she would kill me. As she always said "Why would a man buy the cow when he can have the milk for free, Selena"

As you can see, my mother really has a way with words.

My mind fog cleared enough for me to remember landing in Las Vegas last night (I think) and vague recollections of a hotel and a ransacked mini bar floated in and out of my conscience. I would take a wild guess that this was said hotel.

Let me offer you a piece of advice. A flight from New York to Las Vegas takes around 6 hours. It is possible to consume approximately 5 glasses of champagne in an hour. So what does that add up to? A bad idea. So just don't ok.

I stumbled towards the mini bar yanking it open, grabbing a bottle of water and gulping it greedily. My stomach heaved menacingly as the liquid made contact with it. I strongly suspected it would have a short stay. I groaned as I noted the other contents of the mini bar. Or should I say lack of other contents. I sincerely hoped Pete's credit card was paying for this room.

"Water," I heard mumbled feebly from the direction of the bed. "For the love of God what did we do last night?"

I grabbed a second bottle of water from the fridge and collapsed back onto the bed beside a now wakened Pete.

"I was hoping you would know," I mumbled shrugging my shoulders.

Ouch, I thought as a stinging pain pierced the delicate skin of my hip where it hit the bed. I moved a hand to rub it, and found some blood on the white t-shirt I had acquired from God only knew where.

"Eugh, I'm bleeding," I cringed pulling up the t-shirt to find a blood-soaked bandage covering a large area.

Pete moved in slow motion to look at me with blood-shot eyes.

I giggled slightly as I started to peel the bandage off. "You look like hell," I confirmed to him. He only winced in acknowledgement.

The laugh died rather quickly on my lips when I witnessed what was below my bandage. Oh for the love of God.

"Why the hell do I have your name tattooed on me?" I screeched, horrified at the five black letters, each about an inch tall, adorning my skin.

His eyes widened in horror and recollection as he put his own hand to the bottom of his back. After fumbling for a moment or two, he pulled away his own bloodied bandage, three times the size of mine.

He slowly turned around to give me a full view of his new art work.

SELENA was spelled out in 4 inch high letters across the base of his back.

"Oh, my," I breathed out. "That is very, um, prominent?" I said for lack of a better word.

Then I couldn't help myself. I started laughing. I laughed so hard tears spilled from the corners of my eyes. He looked at me like I was crazy.

"This is NOT funny, Lena," he scolded me, totally not amused.

"It is a little funny," I wheezed out between laughs.

I eventually raised a smirk from him.

"Oh, come on, Pete. Having an Elvis impersonator tattoo my name on your ass doesn't happen every day," I laughed.

"What the hell are you talking about? The tattoo guy was called Harry or Larry or maybe Garry. He didn't look anything like Elvis," Pete threw me a confused look.

"Oh. Then who was Elvis?" I racked my brain trying to remember at what point Elvis Pressley sang 'I Can't Help Falling In Love With You' to us. Not the real one, though, clearly.

"Um, I think maybe he was in a bar or something. He sang to us. I think," Pete shook his head a little, then remembered that wasn't such a great idea. I winced in sympathy.

A light tap at the door interrupted my desperate mind search for last nights events. I toyed with the idea of getting up to answer it, before thinking better of it and yelling "Come in."

A waiter pushed a cart into the room, smiling cheerfully at us.

"Good morning, and may I be first on behalf of the hotel to offer you my warmest congratulations," he beamed at us.

"Uh, sure," Pete began "for what exactly?"

The waiter laughed. "Oh, no need to be so secretive Mr Wentz. We don't talk to the media here. Your secret is safe with us," he winked at Pete.

"Um, I don't think we ordered breakfast," I offered lamely. Yeah, like I could remember that.

"Oh, no you didn't. This is compliments of the manager, Mrs Wentz," he explained.

I laughed and started to correct him. Before I had an almighty flashback to the Elvis impersonator.

"Oh. My. God." Pete yelled from beside me.

"Elvis was..." I started weakly.

"The guy who married us," Pete finished.
Sign up to rate and review this story