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One, two, three . . . I count all of the tiny, red holes. Over twenty from all of the IV’s, shots, blood draws, and whatever else they did to my back. One freaking migraine and my life tipped upside down.
I didn’t even get to visit the beach with Nana. And now, I’m a week behind school. Hopefully I can make up my Trig exam and paper for English Lit.
Nine days of not being able to see, read, or think.
Turning on the shower, I drop all my used bandages in the trash, strip out of my pajama pants, and let the hot water clean away nine days of ick. It stings my back, causing a fresh wave of tears to mix with the hot stream.
After I dry off, I open the vanity to grab my toothpaste. My hand stalls near the new bottle of prescription pain medication with my name on it. Yay, for migraines. Shaking my head, I slam the door shut and use my towel to wipe off the steam on the mirror.
I’m still me. Still the same person.
Luckily everything they tested me for came back negative. It’s only migraines. And only nine days of school. I can make that up.
Everything will be fine.
“What the hell?” A gruffvoice yells from outside, loud enough to filter into my house, followed by banging metal, waking me up. “Where are my keys?”
It takes me a minute to realize where I am. Another one to realize it’s morning, and my head still throbs.
“Great, I slept all night,” I grumble, scratching my temples as a few more curses spew from outside. A few of the same words tumble from my lips as I stand up and make my way to the window.
Nothing out front. In the dining room, I smirk watching the neighbor scramble around his truck trying to open the doors.
“Fuck!” He kicks at the tires, tries the door again, then runs his hands through his hair.
It’s a pity he’s such an ass. Especially with his ass in those tight jeans that just hug everything so well. But, he’s still a rude ass-wipe.
I laugh as he takes the steps to his porch two at a time and darts inside. This almost makes up for me skipping out on work last night and being up at this ungodly hour. Crossing my arms over my chest, I watch as he rushes back to his truck and unlocks it, yanking open the door only to spew a few more choice words.
He reaches in, grabs a handful of the still wet, white slop in his seat and furrows his brows. He turns toward my house as I yelp and dart back just in time.
“Good play, Prude,” he calls out before dropping the toilet paper in a heap on his driveway. Shaking his head, he hops in his truck and slams the door loud enough my windows rattle. As he drives off, I laugh so hard, I fall onto the floor imagining how wet that seat is.
With a smile on my face, I make myself an omelet, toast, and tea, then head to my office. Plopping down in my seat, I take a bite while I turn on my computer, picking up where I left off last night.
“What the fuck was I thinking?” I shake my head at the screen. Nothing on the romantic suspense cover is lined up right. The title is off center and the name too far down. I cringe at the cropping around the female in her long, black dress. “Seriously,” I stare in disbelief, “I’m never working with a migraine again.”
It takes me over an hour to fix the trimming and add some smoke to make the whole design work. But, it still doesn’t look quite right. After changing the title to red, I move it over a little more, pushing it far off to the left.
“That’s actually . . . Awesome.” It’s sexy, dark, and a little unexpected, especially with the gun in her hand. I smile and finish the last few details before sending it off.
Finishing the last few cold bites of my omelet, I answer all my emails before calling it a day. I finished one design, got my neighbor back, and still have a lingering headache.
“All in a day’s work.” Still laughing about the dick-wipe, I rinse my plate off in the sink and head back to my room. I can still catch a few hours of sleep before tonight.
