CHAPTER 1
THOMAS
Badass
Pain woke me. A stubborn, sharp, stabbing pain. My mouth tasted like old carpet, and my head weighed about two tons. There was also a beetle which tried to chew its way out of my brain through the back of my left eye, humming an off-key version ofBabyby Justin Bieber.
Diagnosis: hangover.
Not a standard-issue one, though. My hangover killed Chuck Norris. That’s how fucking badass it was. Lately, most were pretty badass, but this was a brand-new level of evil.
Opening one eye took effort. My eyelids felt glued together. I glanced around the room, not daring to move my head, or—God forbid—try to sit. I couldn’t remember what happened last night. To make things worse, I had no idea where I was.
The walls, or the parts I could see with one eye, were painted dark purple—sangriaoreggplant,maybe. A white, French-styled wardrobe with mirrored doors stood to the left of the bed next to an open window. I tilted my head to the right. A framed quote in French stood on the bedside table next to an antique-looking lamp.
Was I in France?
I couldn’t recall boarding a plane, but then again, I couldn’t recall shit. It was safe to assume I may have boarded a plane, but why the hell would I choose France as the destination? I loathed French food.
A breath of fresh air moved the white curtain net, breached the room and reached my face. A wave of shivers erupted down my spine. Muscles in my body screamed in agony.
Maybe I fucking ran here.
After a few minutes of picking my brain for clues, it was time to start moving. Neither my phone nor my watch laid on the nightstand. Judging by how bright the room was, it must have been around noon. I sucked in a harsh breath and sat, expecting a Band-Aid method to be less painful.
It wasn’t.Obviously.
I grabbed the sheets to stay in place when the room spun a few times. Taking as much caution as a first-time father does with a newborn baby, I swung my feet over the side of the bed, trusting them to bear my weight. The room spun again, faster this time.
Treading lightly, I made my way to the en-suite bathroom, dragging my jelly-like feet across a fluffy, grey carpet. The reflection gawking at me in the mirror would make a spot-on Halloween costume: pale skin, with dark circles surrounding bloodshot eyes. Nice.
I turned on the faucet, leaning over the sink to splash my face with cold water. Shivers shook my exhausted body. Whatever I drank the night before threatened to come back.
There were times in my youth when I got shitfaced and didn’t recall some details from the evening, but for the first time I didn’t remember what I did even before I started drinking.
Maybe because I started two weeks ago.
Anyway.
The alcohol intake last night must have been a record.
A bottle of mouthwash was tucked away in the cabinet under the sink. I fake-brushed my teeth and remembered the army training, morphing into a master of stealth when I cracked the bedroom door open, careful not to make a sound in case the owners—whoever the fuck they were—were still asleep. My mouth curved into a smirk when the door opened to a familiar corridor.
I wasn’t in France. I was at Scorpio’s.
Figures.
My feet carried me through the dark landing with no windows, down the stairs and straight into the bright kitchen. The host sat by the round table in the middle of the room, a cup of steaming coffee in hand. The aroma targeted my nose, working like smelling salts.
“What did we drink last night?” I asked, my voice throaty as if I spent the night screaming the lyrics at an AC/DC concert. “Jet fuel?”
“Good morning to you too, dickhead.” Scorpio put the morning paper aside, a frown on his forehead. “Feeling rough, are you? I fucking hope you are.”
I collapsed in the empty chair opposite from my annoyed friend, resting my elbows on the table.
“Oh-kay. Whatever I did to piss you off, I’m sorry. Cut me some slack; I can’t remember a thing.”
“I’ve been cutting you some slack for two weeks now! More slack than your sorry ass deserves. You’re out of control, Thomas. You need to get your shit together!”