Page 89
Twenty-Eight
Micah wokeup with a hangover from hell. He peered over at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Ten forty-seven am. How come it felt so much earlier?
He lay in bed massaging his temples for several minutes to no avail. Finally, he staggered to the bathroom for Advil, only to find an empty bottle in his medicine cabinet. Dammit.
He relieved himself and splashed water on his face, then ventured downstairs in search of pain reliever. Dressed only in his boxers and squinting to shield his eyes from the bright light of day, he stumbled to the kitchen of his Brentwood mansion. Fudge sat on a stool at the island eating a bowl of cold cereal, reading the latest Walking Dead comicbook.
“Morning,” Fudge greeted around a mouthful of CinnamonLife.
Micah groaned, heading straight for the stainless steel refrigerator. “Could you crunch a little less loudly, please?” He opened the freezer cabinet, pulled out a package of frozen peas—when on earth had he purchased frozen peas?—and placed the vegetables over his throbbing forehead.
Fudge tsked. “Feeling the effects of last night? I’m not surprised. I think you drank all the Tequila.”
“Tequila?” Micah leaned back against the cool stainless steel door. “I thought I was drinking Vodka.”
“That was the night before.”
The night before, that’s right. How many nights had he spent in a drunken haze now? Let’s see, since Tuesday after he’d last seen Maddie. What was that…five nights ago, now? Christ, if he kept this up he was going to be an alcoholic in notime.
Micah threw down the peas and rubbed his hands over his face. “Do you know where I can find some Tylenol or something?”
Fudge waited until he swallowed to speak. “There should be some in the cabinet under the mini-bar.”
“Good place forthem.”
He made his way to the mini-bar in the dining room off the kitchen. There he found a bottle of aspirin, emptied two small pills into his hand and downed them with the rest of the almost empty bottle of Cuervo Gold. Hair of the dog that bit him, he reasoned.
After tossing the finished Cuervo bottle into the trash, he opened the fridge of the mini-bar and grabbed a bottle of water. “Do I have anything going on today?” he asked as he returned to the kitchen.
Fudge flipped a page in his comic book. “Hmm? I don’t thinkso.”
Even the sound of pages flipping irritated Micah. He took a swig of water, wishing it was something stronger. “What time do I have to be at the award show tomorrow?” He paused. “That is tomorrow, isn’tit?”
Fudge dropped his spoon in his bowl, causing an annoying clank. “Am I your secretarynow?”
His friend had been teasing, but Micah wasn’t in the mood. “You’re my half-assed bodyguard who lives free of charge in my pool house. Excuse me for thinking you could maybe pull a little weight aroundhere.”
“Grumpy.” Fudge rolled his eyes then crossed to the kitchen laptop. He clicked on a desktop icon and turned the screen to Micah. “Here. I pulled up your calendar.”
Micah massaged his scalp, trying to rub away his irritation. “Ooo, thanks. What effort that must have taken.”
“What the fuck is your problem? You’ve been in a foul mood allweek.”
Micah ignored Fudge and glanced at the laptop. Yep. America’s Choice Awards were scheduled for the next day. At least he wasn’t up for an award. He was just a presenter—a much easier job with very little focus on him from the press.
“In fact,” Fudge was still talking. “You’ve been in a foul mood since that investment meeting you went to about Maddie’s movie.”
Micah scowled at her name. He didn’t want to think about her, hence the recent large consumption of alcohol. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He pulled the laptop closer, not really looking at it, but trying to discourage Fudge from conversation.
Fudge wasn’t deterred at all. “Come to think of it, you’ve been a bitch since the last week of filming. Since right around when Maddie left production.”
Ow, her name again.
Fudge patted Micah on the back. “Did the standard Preston brush-off not gowell?”
Micah let out a groan. Even though the two of them were good friends, he didn’t share much emotional crap with Fudge. What he knew about Micah’s personal life was from observation and interrogation. Interrogating was today’s tactic.
“I didn’t give her the standard Preston brush-off. We ended things mutually.” Only a partial lie. She wanted one thing, he wanted another. They’d both had a chance to let it not end, and neither of them tookit.
