The hotel room was a riot of laughter, spilled prosecco, and the kind of glitter that would haunt the carpet for months. The hen weekend in the bustling coastal town of Brighton was in full, chaotic swing. Half a dozen women in various states of disarray—feather boas dangling, tiaras askew—were belting out an off-key rendition of "Sweet Caroline" while the bride-to-be, Sophie, danced on a coffee table in a veil that had seen better days. Rachael, perched on the edge of a sagging armchair with a plastic cup of lukewarm wine, was doing her best to blend in. But her tight-lipped smile and crossed arms screamed discomfort louder than the karaoke machine.
She wasn’t a prude, mind you. Rachael could handle a boozy night out with the girls, even if the penis-shaped straws and constant innuendos made her roll her eyes. No, what had her on edge was the woman sprawled on the bed across the room, casually sipping a beer and smirking like she knew something the rest of them didn’t. Niamh. Bloody Niamh. The girl from secondary school who’d always been... different. The one with the short, choppy hair and the leather jacket, who’d been the subject of hushed whispers in the corridors. “She’s a dyke,” the girls used to hiss behind their hands. Rachael had never paid much attention to the gossip back then, but now, stuck sharing a room with Niamh for Sophie’s hen do, those old rumors were clawing their way back into her head.
As if on cue, Niamh caught her staring. Her hazel eyes glinted with mischief as she raised her bottle in a mock toast. “Oi, Rach. You gonna join in, or just sit there looking like someone pissed in your cornflakes?”
Rachael’s cheeks flushed. She forced a laugh, gripping her cup a little tighter. “I’m fine, thanks. Just... pacing myself.”
Niamh slid off the bed with the grace of a cat, sauntering over to plop down beside Rachael on the armchair’s armrest. Too close. Rachael could smell the faint hint of citrus from her shampoo, and it made her inexplicably twitchy. “Pacing yourself, eh? You were never one for fun back in school, were you? Always had your nose in a book or your knickers in a twist.”
Rachael bristled. “I had plenty of fun, thanks. Just not the kind that involved... whatever you were up to.”
Niamh’s smirk widened, sharp and knowing. “Oh? And what was I up to, exactly? Go on, enlighten me.”
The room seemed to shrink, the noise of the hen party fading into a distant hum. Rachael’s mouth went dry. She knew she should back off, change the subject, but the wine and her own stubborn streak pushed her forward. “You know. The... stuff. With girls. That’s what everyone said, anyway.”
Niamh tilted her head, her gaze pinning Rachael like a specimen under glass. “And that bothered you, did it? The idea of me with a girl? Or were you just jealous you weren’t invited to the party?”
Rachael sputtered, her face burning hotter than the cheap fairy lights strung around the room. “Jealous? Are you having a laugh? I’m not—I don’t even—God, Niamh, I’m straight. As a bloody ruler. I’ve got a boyfriend, for Christ’s sake!”
Niamh’s laugh was low, almost a purr. “Relax, princess. I’m not trying to convert you. Just making conversation.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But if you ever get curious, you know where to find me.”
Rachael recoiled as if slapped, nearly toppling her drink. “Curious? I’m not—ugh, just... sod off, alright?” She stood abruptly, muttering something about needing air, and bolted for the balcony, her heart pounding in a way she refused to analyze.
The rest of the night blurred into a haze of more drinks, terrible dancing, and forced smiles. By the time the party stumbled to a halt at some ungodly hour, Rachael was too knackered—and too tipsy—to care where she collapsed. She vaguely remembered kicking off her heels and face-planting onto one of the room’s two beds, the world spinning as she drifted off.
---
Morning came like a slap to the face. Sunlight sliced through the cheap curtains, stabbing Rachael’s eyes as she groaned and rolled over. Her head throbbed like she’d been hit with a brick, and her mouth tasted like regret. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Oh no. The worst of it was the warm, unfamiliar weight pressed against her side. And the distinct lack of anything—clothes, dignity, common sense—covering her body.
Her eyes snapped open. There, tangled in the sheets beside her, was Niamh. Stark bloody naked. Rachael’s breath caught in her throat as her gaze darted lower, only to land on the most damning piece of evidence she could imagine: a black leather strap-on, still buckled around her own hips like some kind of twisted trophy.
“Oh, sweet Jesus, no,” she hissed under her breath, her voice a panicked squeak. Her hands flew to the contraption, fumbling with the straps as her mind raced. What the hell had happened last night? She didn’t—she couldn’t have—oh God, no. This was a nightmare. A literal, waking nightmare.
Niamh stirred beside her, letting out a soft, sleepy hum that sent Rachael’s panic into overdrive. She froze, barely daring to breathe. If Niamh woke up now, if she saw this... whatever this was... Rachael would die. Actually die. She needed to get out of here. Now.
With the stealth of a cat burglar—or at least, a very hungover one—Rachael slid out of bed, clutching the sheet to her chest as she tiptoed toward the bathroom. The strap-on, still half-attached, dangled awkwardly, smacking against her thigh with every step. “Bloody hell,” she muttered, grappling with the buckles. “Who even designs these things? It’s like a sodding chastity belt!”
She finally wrestled the damn thing off, tossing it into the corner of the bathroom like it was cursed. Her reflection in the mirror stared back at her, wild-eyed and disheveled, her auburn hair a bird’s nest of regret. “You did not sleep with her,” she told herself firmly, pointing a shaky finger at the glass. “You didn’t. You’re straight. This is just... just some weird, drunken prank. That’s all. End of story.”
A scalding shower did little to wash away the mortification, but it bought her time to think. She couldn’t face Niamh. Not now, not ever. She’d just slip out, join the others for breakfast, and pretend this never happened. Denial was her new best friend.
Dressed in last night’s crumpled clothes, Rachael crept back into the room, holding her breath as she grabbed her bag. Niamh was still sprawled on the bed, one arm flung over her face, blissfully unaware of the crisis unfolding. Rachael allowed herself one last glance—purely to ensure she wasn’t waking up, of course—before bolting for the door.
Downstairs, the hen party was already gathered in the hotel’s dingy dining room, nursing hangovers over greasy fry-ups. Sophie, the bride, waved her over with a tired grin. “There you are, Rach! Thought you’d done a runner. You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Rachael forced a laugh, sliding into a seat as far from the door—and any potential Niamh sightings—as possible. “Fine. Just... rough night. Too much prosecco.”
Sophie smirked, waggling her eyebrows. “Oh, I bet. Saw you and Niamh getting cozy last night. Anything you wanna share?”
Rachael nearly choked on her orange juice. “Cozy? No! God, no. We were just... talking. That’s it. Nothing else. At all. Ever.”
Sophie raised a skeptical brow but let it drop, thank God. Rachael buried her face in her hands, her mind still replaying the horror of waking up next to Niamh. She wasn’t attracted to her. She wasn’t. She was straight. Straight as an arrow. So why the hell couldn’t she stop picturing that smirk, those hazel eyes, that low, teasing laugh?
This weekend was going to be a disaster. She could feel it. And somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knew Niamh was going to enjoy every second of making her squirm.
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