If Damon Felix had to take one of those lying tests two weeks ago with the question, 'On a scale of one to ten, how many times do you think about Jac Lexington through the day?' The answer would have been zero, which he knew makes him an asshole but it was the truth. However, if he were to test for the question now, the number wouldn't even be on the chart.

It was in the wee morning hours of Thursday, the very first day of Spring Break without Silk Caldwell pulling him off to events like jetskiing on Lake Meade or hitting up downtown for a celebrity party, and instead of taking the time to party by himself - or maybe even with someone new - all he could think about was Jac.

Or at least the lack of her.

Staying under the radar after escaping Juvie had seemed easy at first. It was like deciding to take a three-month long vacation of booze, extravagant parties nearly every night, and bouncing around the globe like a Lacrosse ball being hit around with a crosse stick. Like a three-month Project X party that never ends. Like a series of mini-Paisely Mont Vernon ragers and the best part? He actually had a justification for not giving a shit about anything else; he was on the run, after all!

But with one single slap, Jac had spoiled the entire prospect with a single emotion; she had made Damon Felix feel guilty. Guilty for leaving and not even bothering to at least give a heads up. Hell, even guilty for hopping on the first bus out of Eastlake Juvenile Center in the first place.

And the more guilty he felt about leaving Jac, the more guilty he felt about leaving everything. For the first time ever, he checked up on the happenings of Beverly Hills - finally bothering to buy a new iPhone 6 despite losing his old phone nearly two weeks ago - and the difference was as nauseating as that one bellboy dude's existence; he was no longer listed on the Alabaster Preparatory School's list of Varsity players and besides every gossip-freak and adoring fan, no one seemed to mention him. Except for a tweet from Chris Edwards spreading some big lie about how he'd gotten hit by a bus and somehow died.

As for his sister,, she had all but disappeared off the grid, not having made some kind of post on social media in almost a week.

'At least Erika's chilled out,' Damon thought bitterly as he stormed back into his Four Seasons suite, the thought as comforting as one of Coach Mitchell's 200 push-up routines - which Damon still found himself doing by habit.

The suite he and Silk Caldwell had booked only two nights before was exactly as Damon had left it before he got a slap from reality; life on the Las Vegas strip buzzing outside the balcony window, sunlight casting luxurious shine on the oak wood king-sized bed, the flat-screen TV hanging on the wall playing Basketball rewinds from ESPN, and the private bar that was still awfully untouched despite it being Spring Break.

The only difference was that Silk had left a few of her luggage in the suite; one Louis Vuitton luggage bag and a leather, black Chloe purse all sitting neatly near the wood-gold emblazoned door.

With a groan, Damon pulled off his grey Threads for Thought hoodie and flopped down on the bed, glaring at the alabaster ceiling.

He was alone in exactly everything he wanted; a suite all to himself in a city where there weren't any worries to weigh him down like staying up on Lacrosse, trying not to screw up his Dad's empire of image and prestige, or a girl that he loved but always disappointed.

There was no one or anything to screw up or disappoint. It's why the whole Spring Break daze had been the time of his life - except now he couldn't slip back into it even if his money depended on it.

Hell, he was even thinking about missing the Drake party downtown!

How could he go on like a carelessly free man when life had just slapped him in the face with everything he was trying to forget?

Damon knew he could call her. He could call Jac and beg for her forgiveness one more time. Or he could stop by the Tiffanys & Co. on the Las Vegas strip and spend at least 200k - he'd fucked up big time - and present a gift as a genuine and costly apology. He could man up and fight for Jac, stop running away from Beverly Hills and face his time in juvie even.

But that was just so...exhausting.

He didn't even remember her number and any chance of finding it was long gone with his missing phone.

'Just fuck it,' Damon thought to himself and rolled off the gold-burgundy sheets. 'It's not like you can go back anyway.' Not unless he was a masochist for getting punched, slapped, and thrown under pressure.

Who was he kidding? Life was great. He gets to party for as long as he wants - he was supposed to be in Juvie for three months anyway. Who cares if Jac Lexington pretty much hated him? Who cares if everyone in Beverly Hills probably thought he'd fallen off the face of the Earth? Who cares if everything he'd been working his ass off for was going to be long gone by the time school started back?

He was pretty much emancipated, free to do whatever the hell he wanted when he wanted. He was a bachelor with a hot companion to party the world away with - and who completely got the casual game of sex - and he still had four million dollars left on his gold-silver AmEx card to spend.

He was scoring points on the field! He was a boss without the crosse! He was free!

'Damn, I'm a good pep talker.'

With that pep talk in mind, instead of calling Jac, instead of sucking himself back into the waiting consequences, he texted Silk; ;Ass-bored without you here. Entertain me.'He smiled to himself as he poured the gold liquid into an intricate glass goblet that was designed as if it were for a king - at least the goblet was being put to its purpose.

Whenever Damon or Silk were bored - which was very rarely - they'd play a game of 'Entertain me.' It had seemed silly at first when Silk had conjured up the idea but now it was their niche - not that they were any more than just friends, of course.

There was a loud ping! as Silk responded; 'Let's play a game - I bet I can have more fun than you.'

'You're setting yourself up for failure,' Damon replied. He was in Las Vegas, the city of sinful partying, while she was stuck in the Hamptons babysitting her crazy sister.

Yet Silk still answered with a simple wink and, 'Wanna bet?'

Before Damon could text a retort, his phone was suddenly ringing. Except not the new white iPhone 6 in his hand but another phone, another phone with a much more familiar ringtone - and it was coming from Silk's brown Louis Vuitton luggage bag by the door.

Brows furrowed, Damon took another shot and moved towards the bag - and then stopped. Was he really about to go looking through someone else's stuff?

The phone rang again, Kid Cudi's 'Pursuit of Happiness,' nearly drowning out the ESPN commentator playing on the TV.

Damon decided he'd at least have a look. It sounded like the ringtone of his old phone. The one he'd lost in a party back in Manhattan, the phone that was supposedly long gone yet sounded like it was right in his hotel suite, somewhere deep inside Silk's Louis Vuitton luggage.

So with one cautious step, Damon bent down and unzipped the overstuffed bag, a mixed scent of Chantecaille and Armani perfumes erupting out of the bag like a fragrance volcano. Amidst neatly folded ATM and Lanvin tops was Damon's long lost phone, still in its black Ralph Lauren case, and Brett Richers' name flashing across the screen.

"Duude, I didn't think you'd pick up," was the first slur Damon heard when he answered the phone. "No, wait, say something that lets me know it's you and not a decoy."

"Why the fuck would I be a decoy?" Damon chortled. Despite the tinge of slurring in his voice, Brett sounded like a completely different person. Either Damon had forgotten what his buddy sounded like or Brett was actually sober,

"There are people online pretending to be you on Facebook. I'm getting so confused."

"Well a decoy wouldn't know that you start crying about Benny every time you get Molly munchies so it's cool."

Brett gasped. "Holy shit! You aren't a decoy! What happened to you? I was starting to think you got abducted by aliens!"

"Better. I've been living the life. The free life. I've been going to a party literally every night, I've got loads to spend, and I pretty much have my own rules."

"Jesus frigging Christ! That sounds dope, man!"

"I know, it's pretty fucking amazing." Although at the moment, Damon just felt...bored and alone.

"I would ask why but, um, I'm kind of screwed." Brett said every slur in his speech having seemingly disappeared.

"I thought you were going for the 'cleaner' high this time."

"No, it's not drugs, it's worse. Are you living it up in Las Vegas by any chance?" Damon heard fidgeting on the other end and then a louder, more brawny voice in the background along with an ear screeching beep! A sound indicating a cell had just opened and Damon knew from experience what that had to mean.

"Brett, did you smoke too much crack and land in jail?"

"Something like that. Can you pick me up from the police station? Mia and I got arrested in a bar fight last night and I have the money for bail but I lost my wallet at the club so I don't have any way to get back."

"Aren't you here with anyone that can pick you up?"

"I can't do that....I know what they think of me."

"Well what about Mia?"

"Her parents picked her up and she left me here....and only came back because she forgot to dump me."

Damon sighed and took a last swig of morning champagne. "I'm on my way." However, midway out the door, the thought finally hit him like a knee to the groin.

'Why the hell was my phone in Silk's bag?'

At that moment, his newer phone pinged, cutting his thoughts short before he could conjure up a conclusion; 'Still into a bet?' Silk had asked.

On any other day, Damon would be up for the challenge. He'd be booking extravagant, daredevil adventures and parties people only dream of within seconds because he always win, whether it's Lacrosse or even a simple bet. Except now, with having retrieved his old phone from Silk's bag, he couldn't help but feel a tad bit....weirded out.

So he texted back with, 'I'm good,' instead.

ⓁⓊⓍⓊⓇⓎ

Damon Felix realized how silly it was to drive to a police station as a minor who'd just had a bottle of champagne for breakfast. With all the shit he got for underage car-crashing, he had tried to be more careful but ever since he got out on his own, he had started to slack on everything. Why watch where you drunk drive when you could get off with a wad of cash? The officer that had arrested him months ago had said money doesn't get you out of jail but if that were true, Damon would be in juvie rather than currently rich and free sitting in a black Rolls Royce Phantom and Brett Richers would still be in a cell instead of trudging slowly across the empty parking lot of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Station, all charges dropped.

Brett ducked into the all-black, custom-made interior, a sobered up grin on his face that made him look strange."Dude, where the hell have you been? I feel like you just resurrected from Wyoming!" He exclaimed but all Damon could do was wince at the jagged cut across Brett's eye and his bruised lip. It reminded him way too much of home.

"Definitely not getting fucked up, what happened to you?"

Brett shrugged, clad in a wrinkled striped Barneys shirt and shaggy, blonde hair untidy. Everyone knew Brett was a druggie but he had never looked as bad as he did now. ""You know, just popped way too much E but I'll be cool. " He said nonchalantly.

Damon chortled, starting up the ogled Rolls Royce that made a satisfying hum as it came alive. "For once you actually look like you've been on the field. Coach would be proud, you weren't too lazy enough to get in a bar fight."

"I was fighting for champagne. so he'd probably still think I'm a half-asser," Brett smiled sheepishly, bringing down the tinted, bulletproof window as the car eased out of the police station and on to the less, glammed roads of Las Vegas. "Hey, speaking of Lacrosse and all that, seriously where have you been? You just disappeared and had everyone what-the-fuck-ing!"

Damon turned the wheel, running a red light but too tipsy to care. "My Dad sent me to juv-" He quickly stopped himself, running another light in the process, and then tried to remember the cover story. 'Did he say Cate or Exeter?' He had definitely been gone too long and the thought was nagging on his brain.

"Everyone's been saying you're going to some school in Connecticut but-"

"Right, right, right," Damon interjected tipsily, the cover story now on the tip of his tongue. With as much memory that he had, he recreated the cover story his Dad had conjured; He was transferring to St. Larks, a boarding school in Eastport, Connecticut in hopes of cleaning up his grades. However, he put a spin on it; instead of suffering a fate of stuffy dorms and overbearing monitoring of every move he made, he was ditching St. Larks and all of high society for good to live out his life as a teenage bachelor.

It sounded badass when he said it out loud but inside, he couldn't shake off the 'this-is-bullshit' feeling. Damon didn't know why he was following his father's stupid protocol but it was almost like he was mechanically engineered to be his Dad's bitch. The only person he could even find himself telling the truth to was Jac - not that it had helped matters between them.

"Woah!" Brett exclaimed after Damon finished his elaborated story, green eyes as wide as saucers. "That's fucking epic! You are the man, bro! I wish I had the guts to do that but my parents would kick my ass all the way to military school like Hayward."

They both snickered at the mention of Jared Hayward and Damon whipped out his black MCM wallet from the large driver's compartment. He pulled out his gold-silver AmEx card with a smirk. "Hey, you could duck out right now. I still have 4 million left, more than enough to be 'fucking epic' all year long."

"I'm in!" Brett declared without a moment of hesitance, pumping a hand in the air. "We're gonna be legends; the Beverly Hills bachelors that said 'fuck you' to society and went turned into wise, partying monks!"

"More than just legends, we're probably gonna start a damn cult!" Damon chimed in and with that, they were zooming past the glorious attractions of the Las Vegas strip, un-bothered by the police motorcyclist chasing after them to deliver a ticket.

Damon suddenly felt on top of the world again. He didn't have to go back to the real world. He could just continue running away - literally and while Erika, his father, or even Jac probably thought that made him a coward, running away felt pretty damn fun.

ⓁⓊⓍⓊⓇⓎ

It was already four hours into the night and one magnum-sized bottle of Moet & Chandon, two tablets of E, and one puff of marijuana was starting to feel like the worst and best choice Damon had ever made. He felt like a mix of drunken glitter, the shit underneath someone's shoe, and a tad bit horny all at the same time.

The drunken glitter was probably from the Moet & Chandon while the shit was definitely blending E and marijuana. However, the tad bit of horniness was the girl he was currently and royally making out with on one of the crisp white, rectangular couches in the Hyde Bellagio nightclub.

The glittering fountains of the Bellagio hotel could be heard skyrocketing and failing epically from the view of the lounge balcony whilst the DJ of the night - Paris Hilton who kept screaming, "Yeah, let's party," repeatedly over the microphone like an annoying repetition - blasted The Weeknd as Las Vegas's glamorous socialites and Spring Breakers danced and mingled to the music.

It was like any other night so far since "living the free life". He'd already spent nearly 200k on drinks and was all over a girl with wavy, chocolate-brown hair and a pretty smile whose name he couldn't even remember.

Except, through all the intoxication, Damon could still feel logic. The annoying, inner voice he always got when he was knowingly being an asshat that existed purely to suck the fun out of everything but this time, the annoying, inner voice had a face.

Oddly, he kept thinking about Jac; 'Just forget about us, good thing I already have.' Was she really over him? Was that what was happening while he was away? Were people forgetting about him? Was Chris Edwards being crowned Lacrosse Captain this very moment? Was Matthew Felix erasing him off of his ten trillion dollar will? Was he being a complete dumbass?

Or was he so high that he was starting to get paranoid?

Damon pulled the girl on his lap closer, her scent of champagne and Yves Saint Laurent fragrance practically engulfing him. "Want to take this somewhere else?' He asked huskily and the girl pulled away with a high-pitched giggle, looking ethereal with the Bellagio fountain rising up to the night sky behind her.

He still couldn't remember her name but from how drunk she seemed to be, he had a feeling she didn't remember his either.

"I've been waiting for you to ask," She replied pristinely, sliding off his lap in a manner that was supposed to be alluring but had a tinge of drunken awkwardness. "My sister and I are staying at the Bellagio but she's out right now. We'll have a suite all to ourselves for anything we want to do."

"Great, a place to clean to our heart's desires, I'll bring the mops." Damon smirked and the girl burst out laughing as if he'd said the funniest thing in the world. However, Damon had a feeling he wasn't the least bit funny. He was a drunken asshole that needed to go - "Yeah, let's party!" Paris Hilton shouted for the 55th time from the DJ station, almost as if she were commanding the entire club, immediately met by high and buzzed people whooping back to her.

But the club socialite was right. It was time to party.

Damon helped the girl to her feet and she clumsily fell into his arms with another jittery giggle. "If you'll be the one mopping, can I be the floor?" She flirted and then only giggled again and covered her mouth. "I'm sorry that was so lame. I've never done something like this before."

"It's fine, we have a suite all to ourselves to practice in, remember?" Damon squeezed her hand and the girl smiled warmly. He lead her through the throng of dancing partygoers, both stumbling and laughing drunkenly, as they weaved their way through the thick crowd.

They were just nearing the glossy, glass doors leading off of the luxurious nightclub balcony when the girl suddenly tugged on his silver Michael Kors watch. "Isn't that your friend you came in with?"

Damon turned around to see Brett dancing on the glass table reflecting the neon Las Vegas strip in the middle of the lounge balcony, catching the sight of him just as the large rose-gold bottle of Krug slipped out of his hands and crashed into tiny shards on the floor. Then the drugged out Lacrosse player fell next, hitting the floor with a cringing thud! as everyone moved to get out of the way.

As soon as he hit the floor, Brett started to shake, convulsing like the girl out of The Exorcist, his green eyes wide open and staring unblinkingly at the night sky. However, no one stopped dancing and Paris Hilton didn't stop DJing, only a small crowd of people gathering around him.

"Is he dying?"

"I think he's having a seizure!"

"It happens all the time, its Las Vegas for crying out loud. He'll be fine by tomorrow, I bet."

Damon didn't let himself think. As if he were swerving across the Lacrosse field, he pushed and maneuvered his way through the un-bothered crowds, rushing over to Brett who was still thrashing and jerking around on the floor. A boy in a denim long-sleeved Robert Graham shirt was already holding him down, screaming his head off about CPR.

What were you supposed to do when your friend was having a seizure from partying too hard? Damon could have sworn there was some type of lesson on that in Health class but it was yet another thing he'd forgotten over his Spring Break daze.

He really was an asshat.

"Fuck, Brett, wake up or-or come back down or, shit, just stop it." He pleaded, shaking Brett by the shoulders. However, Robert Graham-guy only pushed his hands away.

"You're not helping at all, mister!"

Not helping? Brett was his friend. How was he not helping? At that moment, Damon felt it. A familiar stirring inside, a familiar, completely uncontrollable emotion. He shoved Robert Graham-guy. "Well, guess what, mister, he's my friend so fuck off."

The boy held up his hands. "I'm just trying to help and-"

"What part of fuck off do you not get?" Damon didn't realize he was actually about to punch mister until some random held him back with a deep baritone voice warning, "Unclench those fists, buddy."

Damon shrugged off whoever it was and at that moment, Brett stopped convulsing like a noodle on the floor and with a huge gasp, he sat up like a vampire rising from his coffin. "I'm fine, I'm fine, I was just playing, guys!" He exclaimed with a beaming grin, causing everyone who bothered to pay any concern to exhale collectively.

"Never mind, don't call 911!" Someone shouted over the music.

Damon helped Brett to his feet, however, he could feel his fists clenching and unclenching, almost as if there was some action he needed to satisfy. Maybe it was the drugs, or maybe it was the fact he was just flat-out drunk.

Brett staggered towards one of the creme-white couches that changed hues with the rotating lights from the DJ station and buried his head in his hands.

"You okay?" Damon asked, mostly because it was the right thing to do but if he were truthfully honest, he really just wanted to duck out with the brunette he'd been talking to earlier rather than take care of a way-too-high friend.

Brett looked up with a tight smile, his shaggy hair soggy from champagne showers and green eyes adorned with red circles. He looked horrible, like one of the after photos they show in Health after a meth binge. He looked like Hell - which meant Damon would have to put getting laid somewhere else on the schedule.

Damon could already see the giggly brunette inside the club standing by the glossy, glass doors. She was leaning on the bar, two guys on either side of her as one passed her a drink.

"I'm okay," Brett said and then chuckled into his hands again. "I feel so fucked up, Jesus Christ."

"Well, which one is it because..."

"Dude, I'm fine, promise," Brett insisted but Damon knew he wasn't fine when his face crumpled up like a yacht sail and he started to cry. "I don't know how to stop, Mia's gonna hate me forever." Then he rolled over to curl up on the couch and Damon had to steady him by the shoulders before he fell into a mysteriously damp spot.

'Here we go with the overdose tears,' Damon thought. When Brett occasionally had too much E, he started crying and thinking about every problem in his life that existed - even the Bentley one of the family valets had crashed when he was seven years old.

Seth Montador was fit for this, not Damon.

"It's simple, Brett, just quit doing drugs."

"Yeah, but I can't," Brett wailed even louder, causing a few heads to turn. "She said me or the drugs and I know this is really bad but I chose the drugs. I just can't. I like how I feel. I don't feel okay when I'm sober. I feel like chewed up gum, Damon. CHEWED UP GUM!"

Damon racked his tipsy brain for something to say, something to calm Brett down and get him back into party mode. "Well then you made your choice. You like drugs more than you like Mia. Problem solved, right?"

"No, problem not solved! She says I'm weak for doing drugs, like I'm running away from life and maybe she's right! Coach benches me every other game, I had Benny go to rehab for me, I'm lucky I'm not on a scholarship or I'd totally be screwed at school, and Mia hates me! Mia wanted me to get better! She's the only person who thinks I can but I just can't! I don't want to!" Brett started rocking back and forth, knees brought up to his chest. "It's the only thing that makes everything cool. I know it's not right but life is too screwed up so-"

"Hey, are you okay?"

Damon turned around to see the Robert Graham-guy standing in front of them again and he scowled. "What the fuck do you want? This isn't any of your business."

"I actually wanted to ask-" Damon didn't even let the boy finish. He pushed him so hard that he stumbled into the glass table of the lounge balcony, knocking down a few dancing partygoers in the process, champagne bottles shattering on to the leather flooring.

There were gasps and the music stopped at the sound of the commotion. Suddenly, all eyes were on Damon but all he could do was sneer at the DJ, "Yeah but you couldn't stop the music for a guy having a seizure."

The Robert Graham-clad boy stood up, having brought down the table and bleeding from cuts on his chubby face. "Excuse me, mister, but what the hell is wrong with you?" He shouted, stabbing a finger at Damon as everyone looked on in skeptical silence.

Someone whispered, "Oooh, angry guy is hot."

Damon could feel his fists clenching, his teeth gritting, and his face no doubt contorting into a leer that was almost - but not quite - like his father's. He didn't know why he was suddenly so angry. Why he felt like knocking someone out or hell, breaking someone's arm like he did poor Connor Royce's.

He turned to Brett who had stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder, an easygoing smile now on his face and wiping away dried tears. "You know what? It doesn't even matter. We're runaway bachelors! I'm probably never gonna have to face all that again, right?" Then with that, he simply moved past the mister on the floor, set up the table, and started to dance atop it again despite there not being any music, the stunned onlookers his audience.

Before anyone could pick a fight, Damon shoved his way through the crowd, not even searching out the brunette from earlier. He simply pushed open the glass doors and hurried down the winding, grey steps that lead down the building and out into the brisk, mix-scented air of the Las Vegas Strip.

The neon, brightly-lit street was packed with luxury cars and taxis stuck in nightly traffic, tourists and party animals hurrying down the streets wielding Canon cameras and bottles of liquor. The Hyde Bellagio was right across the street from the Bellagio Hotel, a wide skyscraper shining among the city lights. However, Damon just glared at it.

He couldn't help but think he was like Brett. He wasn't some huge druggie but he was running away too. Maybe what he was running from wasn't as bad as being addicted to drugs and surrounded by people who looked down on it but he was running from expectations and responsibilities.

The idea of it was great. However, the reality was that he was a coward. Not a runaway bachelor, just a really wealthy coward who had 4 million dollars to fund his cowardliness.

Suddenly, that didn't seem so great. It felt like his Dad's fists shooting towards his face, only for him to dodge the blow. It felt like cheating for the 50th time. It felt like losing a game.

It felt weak.

And weak was one thing Damon never wanted to be.

He backed up against the tall building of the club as the sidewalk grew thick with pedestrians, whipping out his lost iPhone from the pockets of his G-Star jeans. Despite having lost it for weeks, nothing seemed to be different about the phone. He still had the same lock screen; a picture of he and Jac posing for a goofy picture Benny Costa had taken in the Alabaster Prep quad, Damon pulling Jac close while she looked at him with her usual, 'You're-so-annoying-but-I-secretly-love-it,' glare/grin.

All his apps were still installed, pictures intact, and contacts retained.

Except he'd missed thousands of messages and notifications - or at least he had, not whoever had been working with his phone for the past few days. Despite nothing being touched, messages had been responded to. Messages from Jac.

'If you're purposely going MIA on me. You won. I forgive you. Happy?' was the one text Damon had never seen which was why the reply definitely didn't belong to him; 'I lied. You don't mean anything to me. Just forget about us. Sorry.'

Damon was stupidly drunk but the dots still connected. He'd lost his phone at a party only to find it inside of Silk's luggage bag.

He let his head hit the wall. 'I hate girls.'

"I kind of figured you'd be out here."

Damon turned to see the brunette standing a few feet away from him, safely out of the fray of crowds that walked the streets. Underneath all the neon lights, he could finally see just how pretty she was; chocolate-brown hair that fell to her shoulders, mesmerizing light blue eyes and a small upturned nose speckled with freckles. She had an awkward Girl Next Door look along with her egg green Nina Ricci cocktail dress.

"Can I join you?" She asked shyly, shifting the drink in her left hand to the right.

Damon nodded and she settled against the hard, gravelly wall beside him.

"I thought what you did was pretty cool back there."

"The pick-up lines or knocking the guy out?" Damon quipped darkly, suddenly not as enthralled at the idea of hooking up as he was before. It was as if he had sobered up from the runaway bachelor life. In fact, he had a sudden urge to just go home and face the consequences that waited. He didn't want to be weak anymore. He didn't want to run away.

The girl pursed his lips for a moment and then giggled. "Both were pretty cool....you're pretty cool - oh my gosh, I'm cringing. That was so bad!"

Damon found himself grinning anyway. "Hey, you're not bad. I've seen worse."

She grinned then, revealing imperfect teeth that screamed, 'In-need of braces,' but fit charmingly well with her look. "Feeling thirsty?" She asked, handing him her drink.

"What is it?"

"A surprise made from the bartender himself. It's really lemony."

Damon took the drink and tossed it back, contemplating the taste for a moment. "More strawberry than anything."

"Ah, you have some pretty nifty tastebuds. Not many people can sense the strawberry...or so I've heard," She paused, slightly blushing. "Um...still want to try out your tastebuds at my suite?"

That was it. Damon burst out laughing. "You're kidding, right?"

"Oh God, I mean, maybe you should just mop me - oh man!" Her face flushed as if she were cringing at her words again and Damon, still laughing so hard he might have collapsed to the ground, decided he'd give the whole runaway bachelor thing more thought. Maybe he just felt like turning himself for the criminal he was because he was having a very paranoid high. Maybe, just maybe, he could slip back into the fun he'd been having before Jac had to come and shatter it all.

Maybe he could still run away.

Maybe it was okay to be weak.

He took the girl's hand, giving her a beaming one-dimpled smile. "I'm game for exercising tastebuds," He deadpanned and then smirked. "And maybe a nice mopping session afterwards."

ⓁⓊⓍⓊⓇⓎ

Damon could feel the drinks catching up to him as he and the gorgeous brunette stumbled into a Bellagio suite. The room shook and shuddered like a yacht being overtaken by a current, causing him to sway side to side until he could find a wall to steady himself. He couldn't make out the room, just the colors; gold, royal blue, city lights of all colors from the window view.

However, he could clearly make out the girl as she came to stand in the center of the lavish suite, clasping her hands together and simply staring at him. "Not feeling so good?" She asked innocently, a pinch of concern to her voice.

Damon could only nod, barely able to make out an audible words except for; 'sleep.'

And then the word kept dancing around his head and it was all he could hear. Was this a side effect of E?

Damon wasn't sure how he ended up on the hue of royal blue that must have been the bed because he felt like he was floating on a cloud - a cloud made of silken sheets and comfy duvets.

The girl stood in front of him for a moment, head cocked to the side with a skeptical expression, and then she climbed on to the royal blue bed beside him. She put a finger to her lips, flaunting a pink, bitten-down nail and shhhed him.

Damon suddenly had a pricking chill that ran down his back. Not out of fear but out of realization. 'The drink!' Something had been in the drink! He was being drugged! He was being drugged by an awkward girl who didn't know how to flirt!

However, he was far too weak to get up. His eyelids were growing heavier by the minute and his head was killing him.

The brunette whipped out a phone, blue eyes still flicking from him to the screen before she put the phone to her ear. "He's up here. Room 203-"

"I have to..." Damon trailed off and she gently shhed him again. What did he have to do? He had to leave and get help before he was drugged into sticking it in crazy. He had to get out of that room and find Brett. He had to....he had to stop running away and go back to his life.

"Just knock three times so I know it's you," The girl continued. "....Include a Sephora and a Neiman Marcus gift card and you have a deal...okay, hurry." Slipping her phone somewhere Damon couldn't make out, she started to crawl on top of him, Damon far too nauseated to say anything let alone, 'Get your hands off me.'

She leaned towards him, turning into a mess of hues of brown, green, and mahogany, and then Damon's vision began to fade to black, the girl's voice still ringing in his ears as she whispered, "Sorry."

-----------------------------------------

A/N: Sorry for another long hiatus, I hope this very long, Damon-centric chapter helps :)

Thank you for everyone who still patiently reads and leaves wonderful comments. I always crack up reading them because your inline comments are always a riot. As always, thoughts are welcome and I'll try to reply to everyone and catch up on all the awesome stories I've been missing out on!