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CHAPTER TWO
Thursday, June 3
I am going to die.I swallow dry stale air and feel my head pulse with just that slight motion. Nope, not going to — I’m already dead. I’ve died and sadly, I’ve been sentenced to an eternity of licking used kitty litter boxes because that’s what my mouth tastes like right now. Gross.
I clutch my throbbing head and try to sit up. Waves of nausea slosh over me, and I’m forced to breathe through my mouth to keep my body in check. I press my fingers into my eye sockets, hoping the pressure will keep them embedded in my skull where they belong. Because, honestly, they feel like they’re going to pop out of my head.
An intense bright light surrounds me. Even though my eyes are closed, I know it’s there, and it makes me afraid to open them. When I finally find the courage, the blinding rays stab into my brain and I quickly clamp my lids closed again. That was such a bad idea.
I hear a light tapping and then work to refocus my vision and adapt to the blinding morning sun. Geez, it’s so bright this morning. Is the sun always this bright? Maybe it’s the light of heaven and I really am dead after all.
“Good morning, Little Bird,” I hear a deep, sexy voice say. It’s definitely a voice I’ve heard before. Like last night. At the bar. Crap on a cracker! Tarzan!
My eyes flip open like spastic window shades on a roller, and I blink to get a look at where I am. I’m tucked into the soft white sheets of a king-sized bed that isn’t mine. The bed is in a room that isn’t mine or even one I’m familiar with. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God! What have I done?
The burly bartender who forced his evil firewater and half-masticated cow into my body last night has the nerve to smirk at me.
“Well, you don’t look as bad as I expected. How do you feel?” He inquires, thankfully, keeping his volume low.
I flop back against the pillows and let my eyes fall shut.
“I’m dying.” Hearing the croaking sound of my voice, I’m immediately concerned and work to sit up again, gripping my throat.
“You’re not dying, honey. You’re just hungover. I guess whiskey isn’t your thing, huh?”
“How many did I have?” My voice sounds scratchy, and it’s almost painful to speak.
“Last I counted, four, possibly five.” He lifts one hand and splays out all five of his enormous fingers to be sure I understand how many he means.
“Aren’t you supposed to cut me off at some point when I’ve been overserved?” I accuse. This really is all his fault. I wanted one beer. He talked me into five whiskeys. How did that happen? One look at the black tee stretched tight over a muscled chest and well-worn, low-slung jeans and I know exactly how.
“Yep,” he agrees. “But you seemed fine. Until you weren’t. I wasn’t going to let you drive home, but you were chatty and coherent the whole time. Well, until you went to the bathroom and passed out.”
“I passed out in the ladies’ room?” My voice screeches. Crap! I clutch my head. Another terrible idea.
“Yeah, one of the waitstaff found you. She wanted to call an ambulance, but I told her you were a friend of mine, and brought you here.”
“Where is here?” I ask, glancing down to be sure I’m covered by the sheets only to realize that I’m dressed in an oversized T-shirt that doesn’t belong to me. It has the logo of one of my all-time favorite bands on it,Climax.It’s old and soft from washings. And it smells clean and like some sort of man spice I can’t quite put my finger on. It takes a moment for my brain haze to lift and realize I’m in his T-shirt. His T-shirt and nothing else!
“Where are my clothes?”
“Relax, Little Bird. You’re at my place in the city,” he explains. “And you threw up on your clothes, so I washed them and put you in my T-shirt.”
I can feel my cheeks reddening with the flame of mortification. This is not happening. I blew chunks all over the hottest man I’ve ever met? Now, I really wish I could die and spare myself this humiliation.
“Calm down, I didn’t try to fuck you or anything. You’re perfectly safe. I just didn’t want you waking up with a charcoal tube down your throat while EMTs tried to pump your stomach. I figured you’d wretch it up on your own, and you did. But I wasn’t putting you in bed covered in vomit, either.”
I’m not listening to a word he says. My brain cannot process language at the speed it’s assaulting my ears. I’m still focused on him washing my clothes.
“You washed my clothes? Like in a washing machine?”
“Um, yes?” He looks a bit worried. He should be.
“Listen here, Tarzan, that was a three-hundred-dollar suit. Silk. It’s dry clean only. Didn’t you read the label?”
“Shit,” he leaps up from the foot of the bed where he’d rested one hip to sit slightly and dashes from the room. I untangle myself from the sheets and try to steady myself on my feet. Well,I’mperfectly steady. It’s the room that seems to keep tipping from side to side. I reach out and try to balance myself by leaning on a side table next to the bed.
“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry.” The King of the Jungle holds up my skirt and blouse, which now look as if they could fit a child’s doll. I roll my eyes, nearly causing my body to fall over onto the bed.
