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He just stared at me. Complete shock written all over his face. I can only assume my expression mirrored his.

"What...?" he began, then stopped.

"Why...?" I started, then paused, racking my brain for some concrete memory of last night.

"Did we...." he glanced around the room, taking in the scattered clothes.

"I think we might have..." I bit my lip, a crashing memory of his body pressed to mine as I writhed below him. Naked. There was definitely sex involved.

His eyes widened. "I don't think we would have.."

"Used protection," I finished his sentence, panic filling me. Oh, god could this day get any worse?

The sound of his phone ringing was about to answer that question for me.

"Uh, y'ello," he answered and immediately pulled the phone away from his ear. I could hear yelling from the other end.

"Calm the fuck down, Trick," he tentatively placed it back towards his head. He listened for a few seconds. "How the hell do you know that?" he yelled back into the mouthpiece. "Oh, holy fucking Christ," he mumbled, turning a whiter shade of his current pale.

I watched him, wide-eyed. He reached for the television remote control and flicked it on. He flipped channels until he reached the news.

"I'll call you back," he muttered into the phone. I heard a fresh volley of garbled yelling before he flipped it closed, cutting Patrick off mid-sentence.

"What?" I asked him urgently

"Watch," he replied, motioning me to watch the television.

"What the fuck Pete, just tell me what..." I stopped abruptly as a photograph of three very familiar people flashed onto the screen.

Me. And Pete. And Elvis.

Oh, crap.




"What do you mean I'm too intoxicated?" Pete slurred at the woman. "I'm perfectly sober. Watch."

He stood with his arms outstretched and attempted to touch his nose. His finger met his Adam's apple. He tried again and poked himself in the eye.

"Ouch," he replied, rubbing at it. "See?" he turned back to the woman in triumph, squinting.

I giggled from beside him, hanging onto him to keep myself upright.

"Sir, we will not be granting you a licence this evening. I would strongly suggest you come back tomorrow. Sober," the woman replied sternly. That was quite a mean feat. It is very difficult to look stern whilst dressed as Cleopatra. God, this city is weird.

We stumbled out into the night, giggling insanely. We moved on down the strip.

"I never wanted an Egypt wedding, anyway. It's kinda creepy in there. Getting married in a tomb is just kinda sick," I mumbled to Pete.

He laughed in agreement. "Yeah, that's just too tacky. We need something a little more classy," he looked around, squinting and trying to focus on one of the many "chapels" which surrounded us. "James Bond!" he yelled, pulling me towards a huge neon sign.

I groaned. I tried to peek through the dirty windows. Pete was already pushing open the door. I followed him inside. I took in our environment with drink-addled eyes. A transvestite sat at the front desk, dressed as Pussy Galore. 'Goldfinger' played in the background.

"Hi, how can I help you?" he addressed us in a gruff voice.

And that was all it took. I dissolved into a fit of giggles. Pussy humoured me for all of about five seconds before he got really mad and stood up to confront Pete. We left pretty quickly after that.

Back on the street, my giggles had gotten out of hand. We stumbled, laughing along the street. Until we happened upon Terry's tattoo parlour. And suddenly all thoughts of a wedding were gone as Pete displayed his ADHD tendencies.

Terry was a lot less female looking and a lot more welcoming. I have strong suspicions he was under the influence of more than tattoo ink fumes. If there is such a thing. I was in the chair and yelping under Terry's needle before you can say "I think this might be a bad idea".

Pete kept up a constant banter with Terry, sharing our wedding plans as he lay flat out on his front, not so much as flinching as the word SELENA appeared on his back. I sat in a chair at his side rolling a 'special cigarette' for us to share. The third we had consumed since our arrival less than an hour before. I closed one eye, then the other. I was sure there was only one cigarette there but I was currently seeing four. I would have got along better if I had just closed them both at the same time.

"I have a friend who does a mean Elvis wedding, just a few hundred yards down the road," Terry informed us.

And the rest, as they say, is history.





We both stared open-mouthed at the screen.

"Fall Out Boy Pete Wentz married his girlfriend in a secret Las Vegas wedding in the early hours of the morning. Witnesses say the couple appeared to be intoxicated as they laughed their way through an Elvis themed wedding at the 'Love Me Tender' chapel on Sunset Strip...." the reporter began, as a larger version of the one photograph they appeared to have flashed onto the screen again. "Pete and his girlfriend Selena, believed to be a technician with Fall Out Boy road crew, were unavailable for comment this morning and manager Phil Gilliam was more than a little surprised when confronted with the news," an amused smile appeared on her lips. "More on this story as we get it," she finished.

Pete quickly flicked the television off again. His phone rang again. We both ignored it.

"I think I might be in deep shit," he winced at me.

I nodded my agreement. "Yeah, I think you might be right."

"What the hell are we going to do?" he looked at me, completely clueless.

"Well, first, I need to eat. Then we need to get me the morning after pill," I suggested, gaining his immediate fiercely nodded agreement.

"After that?" I began, as he looked eagerly at me awaiting my bright idea. "I have absolutely no idea."