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I squinted up at my bedroom ceiling, wanting to hiss like a vampire at the morning sunlight streaming into the room through the open curtains. I never left my curtains open at night. Something was seriously wrong.
Struggling upright, I immediately pressed a hand to my sloshing belly. Oh shit, that didn’t feel great. My legs were weak and trembling when I slid out of bed and hobbled to the bathroom, still clutching my stomach. By the time my socked feet hit the cool tiles, my mouth was filling with saliva. I made it to the toilet just in time.
I was hungover as fuck. I hadn’t gotten drunk since the night Marcus had left me. I’d never gotten blackout drunk before, but I couldn’t remember anything from last night.
Guess the memory-wiping thing worked then.
Wait. What? That thought didn’t make any sense.
After wiping my mouth, I flushed the toilet and crawled over to the shower, groaning like a dying animal. Why had I gotten so drunk? On a Thursday?
I reached up to turn on the shower, then realised I was still wearing my shirt and pants from yesterday. With a pathetic whimper, I flopped onto my back and lay there for a few seconds, the cool tiles against the back of my head giving me a brief reprieve from the skull-thudding headache.
With uncoordinated, flailing movements, I wriggled out of my pants like a worm and unbuttoned my shirt. I was shaking like a leaf by the time I lifted my legs to peel off my socks and shuck my boxer briefs. Oh god, this was hell. Hangovers only got worse with age. Why hadn’t anyone told me that?
I managed to make it under the shower and breathed deeply for a few minutes as the nausea rose back up. Seriously, why had I gotten so drunk last night? Thinking about anything too hard was making my brain hurt, so I decided to focus on getting through my shower without accidentally drowning myself.
I was still shaky when I eventually climbed out, but I felt marginally better. After wrapping my bath towel around myself like a cloak, I brushed my teeth vigorously before shuffling back into the bedroom.
My work shoes had been neatly placed beside my bed. My watch was on the nightstand along with my phone and keys. I couldn’t even remember driving home from work.
Shit, what time was it? Stumbling forward, I snatched up my phone and saw that it was just past eight, which meant I still had plenty of time to get to work. There was a text from Lance, sent fifteen minutes ago, which was probably what had woken me up.
You get home okay, bud?
I frowned down at it, my headache intensifying as I tried to think back to yesterday. I vaguely remembered speaking to him last night. Wait, it had been Sharon from Accounts’ birthday thing after work. Shit, had I gotten hammered at it? How fucking embarrassing.
I quickly typed out a response, Yep, all good, before setting my phone down to get dressed. Was my car even here? If I’d gotten drunk at the work party, I wouldn’t have driven home. Had I gotten a ride from someone? Obviously not Lance, or he wouldn’t have been asking me if I’d made it home okay.
God, I hoped it hadn’t been Chase.
As I was making my way into the kitchen, my phone dinged in my pocket. Lance had replied, Great. See you at work. I’ll get the ovens fired up! LOL
I didn’t think donuts were even cooked in an oven. Swiping up to close the messages app, I noticed my camera app was open. Tapping it, I recoiled at the hideously unflattering view of my pale, hungover face that filled the screen, before I noticed the tiny thumbnail of the last photo taken in the bottom left corner.
I could see it was a photo of me, with someone else who looked like they were somehow in black and white while I was in colour. I tapped to open it up and stared in bewilderment.
My hair was a mess in the photo, and my bloodshot eyes were drunkenly pointing in two different directions, neither actually focused on the camera. Beside me, his cheek pressed up against mine, was a ridiculously beautiful man with long black hair and… grey skin.
One of his eyes was half shut, but the other was staring right into the camera, and it was bright pink with a wobbly pupil. I could see the tip of a sharply pointed ear poking out from his hair.
Choppy, half-formed memories started flooding back in a rush.
Falling asleep on the roof and getting locked out of the office.
Cackling granny.
Pink-haired guy thinking I was a stripper.
The giant neon Goliaths of Wrestling sign.
Holt.
I’d gotten drunk with this guy, Holt. We’d gotten really drunk. And eaten ice cream. And… oh shit.
Told each other all our weird and embarrassing secrets.
Oh god. Why had we done that?
