He was a typical bad boy. Leather jacket, roughed-up jeans, scuffed boots, and a head of dark hair that fell over his forehead just enough to make her fingers itch to push it back. As she watched him pace the far end of the dim bar, his icy blue eyes met hers and made her heart race with a tense jolt of mixed feelings. Fear, excitement, intrigue, nerves, confusion; her thoughts were one jumbled mess, and she couldn't make sense of anything.

His gaze dropped back to the floor, and then to the drink in his hand. A few women entered, and gave him an up-and-down pass of admiration, and she felt something else jump into the mix of emotions: jealousy. Which was odd. She didn't know him. He didn't know her. The sense of possession that filtered through everything else was growing from far-off attraction, surely, because they had barely spoken two words in this place.

Yet, as she let my attention fade from him to the little diamond sitting on the ring-finger of her left hand, it was clear that they had definitely spoken at length sometime within the past 72 hours. Yes, he was a complete stranger, whose last name she didn't even know. Yes, she had absolutely no idea where he was from, what he was like, or why they should even know each other. The fog of memory from the past three days was distorted by the alcohol she hadn't stopped consuming. Every time she had started to feel sober, she'd grabbed another drink. Anything could have happened, and she would remember nothing.

That had been the point. Drink, and forget.

When she had finally woken up sober, scrunched under the covers of a dirty little hotel she didn't recognize, there had been bottles and cans everywhere. It looked like someone had hosted a twenty-person party. But there was just her in the bed. Just her and a lethal amount of bottles that she hoped she hadn't emptied all by herself.

And then he came out of the bathroom in nothing but his boxers, looking bleary-eyed and confused, and the amount of relief that she hadn't consumed all of that alcohol was completely overcome by the blow that there was a man in her room that she didn't know, who she had probably slept with, who was wearing a wedding ring. Which made her a marriage wrecker, a slut, a hypocrite to her beliefs.

But then she noticed the unfamiliar ring on her own finger, and the slightly crumpled marriage license on the side-table with an unrecognizable scrawl right above her own signature. Judging by his alarmed look as he stared at his hand and then at her, he was experiencing the same amount of shock and bemusement as she was.

And then things got a whole lot more interesting.

Author's Note: Hello! It's been a while. Years, in fact. But I've finally settled down, gotten married, and gotten hit with the inspiration to write again. Don't expect anything grand. This is just my re-entry into the world of writing.

I've missed it.