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At that, I lost it. Laughter punched out of me no matter how hard I tried to hold it in.
“Stop cackling!”
“I think you got it because you thought it would be really funny.”
“Do I look like I’m fucking laughing?”
I didn’t know what to tell him. It wasn’t going to wash off. “I’m guessing you don’t know what it says.”
“How good are you at reading your ass? What does it say?”
The words weren’t the problem. Not really. “Well, it’s a portrait.”
He growled, “A portrait of what? Take a picture with your phone so I can see it.”
Yeah, like having pictures of Hale’s brother’s naked ass on my phone would make this situation any better.
“It’s not that bad.” It was horrible. “The work’s decent and everything’s spelled correctly.”
He growled through gritted teeth. “What the fuck is it, Meyers?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“Meyers!”
“Fine! It’s…um…Britney.”
“What?” He bolted into the bathroom and several things clattered to the floor. “Fuck!”
“It’s not that bad, Barrett. Maybe you can cover it up with something less…Y2K.”
“It’s a fucking tramp stamp!” He stumbled out of the bathroom, a look of sheer horror on his face. It would be a long time before he saw the humor of the situation. “My career’s over.”
“No, it’s not. Models have tattoos. That’s what airbrushing is for.”
“I have the words hit me, baby, one more time permanently inked above my asshole!”
I smothered my laughter out of respect. There was definitely a prison joke in this mess, but the murderous look in his eye warned me to save it for later.
“This is all your fault!”
“My fault?” My memories were still too fuzzy to know if that was true. I might have encouraged him, but a tattoo would have ultimately been his choice. “You can’t blame this on me!”
He gripped his head. “What the hell were we drinking last night?”
“I’m guessing turpentine.”
“We have to retrace our steps.” He finally stepped into his rumpled pants but winced when the leather of his belt bumped Britney’s chin. “Ouch. Damn it. Were we around birds?”
“Birds?”
“I don’t know. I remember…birds.”
This was categorically the worst hangover in the history of humankind.
“Look, I’d love to Scooby-Doo our way through this mystery with you, but Hale is probably passing his keys off to the valet at this very moment. I don’t have the strength—or the answers—to explain any of this right now. My head’s killing me. My feet feel like someone tried to burn me at the stake. And my future’s in massive danger if I don’t get you out of here before your brother arrives. Do you want to start World War III with this degree of a hangover?”
A jagged breath skipped past his lips as he massaged his face. “It feels like my ears are literally bleeding.”
