TATE
MY HEAD WAS splitting. Not the dull kind of headache you could sleep through, but the sharp, punishing throb that made it feel like my skull was too tight for my brain. I groaned, pawing at the nightstand for my glasses. My hand fumbled over wood, a lamp, nothing.
Fuck.
When my eyes cracked open, the room tilted, the ceiling blurred and my stomach gave a slow, angry twist that reminded me of the drinks Eli kept shoving into my hand. Great. Hungover in hell.
I sat up, tongue thick and mouth dry. My bladder barked a protest and that decided it — I had to move. I slid off the mattress, feet hitting cold floor, and reached again until my fingers brushed the familiar frame of my glasses. Relief hissed out of me when I shoved them on, the world sharpening back into place.
That’s when I
