Page 12 of Burning Obsession

I roll over onto my back, groaning as I drag my pillow over my face; as if suffocating myself might somehow make the pounding stop.

It doesn’t. I think it makes it worse.

"What the fuck!" I scream into the pillowy material, muffling my voice the best I can.

Vivid images of last night begin to come back in flashes. My very own movie reel of my bad choices.

Shots. Beers. So much alcohol. More than one person should probably consume.

Stellan laughing so hard that he nearly fell off his stool because apparently I insisted I could beat the jukebox in an argument. I still don't know what the hell that means. Was there even a jukebox there?

Darts. Pool. Bets.

Round after round we drank, as he continued to taunt me about my damn secret admirer. I really wish he’d find a new topic of discussion.

The drinking continued until the wee hours of the morning, when we both finally dragged our asses out of there at last call. Now, I need to get an Uber back to the place so I can get my truck. No way in hell was I attempting to drive home. If I were smart I wouldn't have driven there, but I was only expecting to have a drink or two.

Throwing the pillow off me, I manage to crack one eye open and immediately regret it when sunlight pours through the gap in my curtains blinding me.

"Jesus Christ." I growl in agony.

I try to roll over onto my side, and put my back to the offending light, but that takes more effort than I have. So, I stare at the ceiling for a minute, letting myself exist in miserable silence before remembering the one thing that keeps me from spiraling.

I don’t have a shift today. I'm still on my off schedule. Thank God.

A laugh escapes me at the sheer happiness of that thought. Even though the thought of this hangover sticking around any longer makes me sick. If I'd been scheduled to work tonight, I probably would've called in claiming the plague. Or something maybe a little more believable, but also extremely contagious.

Instead, I can spend the day pretending I didn't make a complete idiot of myself with Stellan while my liver files a formal complaint for my behavior.

Eventually, I force myself to sit up even though my body protests. The room spins, and I have to take a deep breath to clear my head and keep from puking. No way in hell do I want to be on a carousel ride this morning.

Getting out of the bed, I raise my hands above my head and stretch. I give my head a roll, and shuffle toward the bathroom, stripping my shirt and boxers off before stepping beneath the shower.

I place my hands on the tile wall, letting my head drop forward as hot water pounds against the tight muscles between my shoulder blades.

Heaven is what it feels like right now, against my aches and incessant jackhammering in my brain. I stand there, under the spray, longer than I should, letting the water beat against my neck while steam fills the bathroom. If water could wash the alcohol out of your bloodstream, I'd stay here until tomorrow. Instead, I settle for pretending it's rinsing the whiskey out of my pores.

The heat eases the ache behind my eyes enough that I can think again.

Well, barely think. By the time I shut the water off, I'm almost human. And that’s a very lenient almost.

I dry off, pull on a faded pair of jeans, a charcoal T-shirt, and my oldest, but favorite, pair of Converse, before running a towel through my hair. It took everything in me to lace the shoes up, because every time I bent over to tie the laces, I felt like I was going to pass out.

Coffee.

That’s what I need.

Everything will be better after I have my first cup, with many more to follow.

I wander into my kitchen with a renewed determination to rid myself of this pounding in my head. A good start has already been made with the shower. Reaching up, I open the cabinet and take out the coffee container. Only to open it and find it empty.

All I can do is stare at it in devastation. I close my eyes, pressing them tightly before opening them again, hoping that this time when I look there’ll be grinds in the container.

There isn’t.

“Fuck,” I drag out the word. “You've got to be kidding me.” Both my palms land on the counter with a dull thud as I bow my head dramatically. "This is how I die."

Hungover. Caffeineless. And all alone. Who knows when my body will be found. Thankfully, I don’t have a pet, so they won’t start eating my body from hunger.