A dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes was the first thing to greet Sean's consciousness. He groaned, the sound rough and unfamiliar in the heavy silence, and pressed the heels of his palms hard against his temples. Every curse word he'd ever known flickered through his mind in a blur of uncensored frustration. He tried to stretch, to unkink the stiffness in his limbs, but a sharp, arresting pain lanced from his hips straight up his spine, making him suck in a breath.
"You have got to be kidding me," he hissed into the opulent quiet, one hand flying to the small of his back. It felt bruised. Everything felt bruised.
Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire. Or, more accurately, falling down the stairs and landing on a bed of nails. His eyes finally focused, taking in the room, and his brain short-circuited.
"Oh, you have got to be shitting me."
His heart, which had apparently just narrowly cheated death, decided to make up for lost time by hammering against his ribs like a frantic prisoner. He knew exactly what had left his body feeling like it had gone ten rounds in a woodchipper. The million-dollar question, and given this room, that might not be far off, was who he'd done it with.
His gaze swept the suite. This wasn't a room. This was a statement. The kind of place no amount of overtime could ever afford unless you got stupidly lucky or became some oligarch's pet. He shoved the duvet aside and winced. A constellation of faint red marks dotted his skin. Exhibit A.
The evidence was pretty damn conclusive. Feeling like this, it was obvious how the night had gone down. He hadn't been driving; he'd been along for the ride. A scream of pure, unadulterated panic bubbled in his throat, but he choked it down. Getting out of bed seemed like a better plan, albeit one that resulted in another pathetic groan.
His eyes landed on the nightstand. A crisp paper bag and a neatly folded set of clothes, new by the look of them, sat waiting. He reached for them. A sticky note was affixed to the packaging of a light blue shirt. Twelve digits. A phone number. And a name. The name, he assumed. The architect of his current misery.
He dragged a hand down his face, the gesture rough with frustration. Tucked inside the bag with his own crumpled clothes from the night before was a stack of cash. If he were in the business, he'd probably think he'd hit the jackpot. A patron like this was the holy grail. But he wasn't. Except… last night had clearly blurred some lines.
He tilted his head back, taking in the absurdly elegant chandelier, then let his eyes roam around the palatial room. A weird sense of opportunism cut through the panic. It seemed a shame to waste a place like this. A free vacation, his brain supplied, latching onto the thought with desperate logic.
Moving with the careful deliberation of a much older man, his body slowly negotiating a truce with the pain, he made his way to the bathroom. His destination was immediate and undeniable: that massive, pristine bathtub. A long, hot soak wasn't a luxury; it was a necessity.