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Where the hell to start?
Just looking at the place added to the throbbing in my head. Maybe I was still drunk. Who the fuck knew?
Before even attempting to tackle the mess around me, I had to find something to relieve the pounding in my head.
Ten minutes later, after a fruitful search for ibuprofen and downing three glasses of water, I held a few trash bags and focused on the project ahead of me.
“Time to purge this monstrosity.”
* * *
I’d barely washed the shampoo out of my hair when my ability to ignore the consistent buzzing of the intercom shattered. The fact I let my phone die was a big enough hint to leave me the fuck alone. But it looked as if the dickhead downstairs wasn’t getting the memo.
Which meant it was the one and only Lucian Morelli.
I might as well allow him to put me out of my misery. I felt no better now than when I’d woken up after passing out on the terrace.
Washing the suds from my face, I ended my shower and reached for my towel.
The intercom continued to blare while I shrugged on a pair of lounge pants, and then I couldn’t help but groan when the emergency phone in the kitchen rang, died down, and started up again.
For the love of God, I wasn’t dead. I decided to drop out of sight for a little while.
I scanned my place, still seeing a less-than-stellar reflection of its former self.
At least it no longer reeked of decaying food and alcohol.
Moving to the front entryway, I punched in the code to allow access to my private elevator and waited.
Less than three minutes later, the cab opened to reveal my expected guest of honor.
He looked me up and down. A disgusted sneer appeared on his face, and then he shook his head.
“Go ahead. Do your worst.” I opened my arms wide.
Instead of punching me in the face as I expected, he shoved past me and strode into my place.
“What? Don’t you want to shoot me or maim me in some way? Here’s your chance. I’ll make it easy on you and won’t move.”
“It takes the joy out of it if you don’t fight back. Nobody wants an easy mark.” Lucian glanced over his shoulder. “You look like shit. Put on a shirt, for fuck’s sake.”
“Since the last thing on my agenda for the day was entertaining, I give two shits about making a good first impression.”
“I’m not here for a social visit.”
“Then what the hell do you want? Either beat me up or leave. I don’t have time for you.”
“You’re making time.” Lucian continued into the penthouse and abruptly stopped as his focus landed on a near-empty bottle of his favorite fifty-year-old scotch sitting on a corner of the bar in the living room. “Interesting. You are mortal, after all.”
“Want to elaborate?”
“I expected to find you at work, lost in designing the latest and greatest structure the world has ever seen. Not like this.”
I clenched my jaw. “What do you mean by this?”
“Don’t even pretend you don’t know what I mean. Your preferred method of coping with your troubles is to work yourself to the limit. Then when you resurface, you’ve created some cold, architectural fortress only other assholes can appreciate.” Lucian moved to the bottle of nine-thousand-dollar scotch, picked it up, grabbed a tumbler, and poured a serving for himself. “But here you are, recovering from what looks like a bender.”
“What’s your point?”
