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And freeze. “What the hell?”
Amanda’s eyes peel open, and she smiles lazily. “Morning.”
My brain spasms as I try to recall last night. I remember dinner. I remember abandoning Amanda at the restaurant. I remember visiting Pops. And I remember that bottle of whiskey. “Fucking hell. Pops.” My throat feels like I’ve swallowed a pile of razors as I clumsily throw my hand out and feel for my phone on the nightstand. I also remember Amanda calling me as I left Pops’s place in a cab. I collected her on the way home, because, stupid me, I left my AMEX with her.
My hand collides with numerous objects, knocking them to the floor, before I finally lay my hand on my mobile. I look at my screen, closing one eye to try and turn my double vision into single vision. Then I slowly and carefully type in a P and an O and then another P. I hit call and drop the phone to the pillow by my ear. Amanda crawls onto me, suffocating me, and I gently but firmly push her off, smiling awkwardly when she throws me a questioning look.
“Acre Residential Home,” a too loud voice says. Sheila’s voice, the long-serving receptionist.
“It’s Luke,” I say groggily, moving my ear away from my phone before the receptionist can do what I just know she’s going to do.
“Luke,” she shrieks. “Now then, what time did you leave last night?” Her tone is teasing.
“Too late,” I confirm. “Is Pops up?”
“You mean after you two got steaming drunk? You know alcohol is prohibited, Luke.”
“Cut the old bugger some slack.”
She snorts her thoughts on that one. I know half the shenanigans that go down at the home always have a direct connection with Pops. I smile at the ceiling, hoping that I’ll be as mischievous as he is when I get to his age. “He’s still in bed,” Sheila says.
“He is?” I pull back my phone to check the time. “But it’s eight a.m. He’s never out of bed later than seven. Not ever. Have you checked he’s alive?” I sit up, ignoring the fact that my brain feels like it’s fallen into my chest. I’m panicking.
“I’m sure he’s fine, Luke.”
“Check on him,” I demand shortly. “Do it now while I’m on the phone.” I shrug Amanda off dismissively when she takes my shoulder and tries to pull me down.
“That’s not necessary.”
“It is absolutely necessary.” I throw the sheets back and swing my legs off the bed. “If you don’t do it, I’ll be there in thirty minutes to do it myself.” The fact that I’m probably highly over the limit to drive isn’t completely relevant in my fuzzy mind. Neither is the fact that my car is at Pops’s. It’s eight o’clock. Pops has never, not ever, slept in until eight o’clock. Something must be wrong with him.
“Visiting isn’t until eleven onwards.”
“I won’t be visiting. I’ll be breaking in.”
She huffs her displeasure. “You’re a one, Luke Williamson. Cocky like your grandfather.”
“I know. Please, just go check he’s breathing.”
“I’m on my way,” she informs me, so I wait, hearing door after door opening and shutting as I widen my stance to steady myself.
“Fucking hell,” I breathe, the room starting to spin.
“What?”
“Nothing. Are you there yet?” I take slow and cautious steps across my bedroom, blinking repeatedly to try and clear my blurry vision. Fuck me, I feel like I’ve been pickled in a barrel of Scotch.
“Bert?” I hear Sheila say gently. “Bert, are you awake?”
There’s silence, and my worry heightens. And I wait.
“Bert?” Sheila says again, but this time with more urgency in her voice, and I see her in my mind poking at my lifeless grandfather. “Bert?”
“For the love of God,” Pops yells.
“Ah, you’re awake,” she chimes happily.
“Well I am now, you nincompoop.”
I laugh hysterically, having to lunge for the doorframe to stop myself toppling. Fuck. “Put him on, Shelia.”
“With pleasure.”
A few seconds later, I hear snoring down the line. “Pops,” I shout, wincing at the sound level of my own voice.
“What, what, what?” he yells, and I imagine him shooting up in his bed, looking around the room for me. “Where the bleeding hell are you?”
“On the phone, you old fool.” There’s some muffles and a few crackles, and then his voice is booming down the line at me.
“There you are.”
I pull the phone away from my ear. “Don’t yell.”
“I’m not yelling.”
“How’s your head?” I ask. “Because mine is fucking pounding.”
He titters down the line. “Man’s drink, boy. Man’s drink.”
“Devil’s drink,” I mutter, making my way out onto the landing, leaving Amanda in my bed. “Okay, I’m going now.” I need water. Desperately. “Just wanted to check you’re alive.”
“Okay, Grandboy. Call me when you’ve come to your senses.”
“What senses?”
He hangs up, the ignorant git, leaving me staring at my phone on a frown. Senses? He could mean many things. All of my senses aren’t as they should be at this particular moment in time, because they’re hungover. I can’t see, my sense of smell is being polluted by the stale stench of whiskey, my skin hurts to touch, my mouth tastes rank, and I have an irritating ringing in my ears. To put it simply, I feel like shite.
