NOAH
I woke up to the worst hangover of my entire miserable existence.
My skull didn't just hurt, it felt like some deranged construction crew had gone to town inside my head with sledgehammers, jackhammers, maybe even a forklift for variety.
Every pulse of blood was a violent, throbbing reminder that I'd made catastrophic decisions last night.
My tongue tasted like I'd been licking the floor of a dive bar: stale alcohol, acid, humiliation, fermenting together into something foul enough to qualify as a chemical weapon.
And I was not in my apartment.
That realization didn't come in one dramatic bolt of clarity. No, it crawled in slowly, sluggishly, like my brain had to wade through a swamp full of nausea before letting the truth reach me.
The bed beneath me was far too soft, the kind of softness that promised a price tag meant to personally insult the working class.
