Chapter 12
A hard hand slapped my bum, and I moaned and buried my head under the pillow. “Go ‘way and let me die in peace.”
“Roddy. What’s wrong?”
“My God, I’m dying. My head is killing me and my stomach—” I clapped a hand to my mouth and rolled over to the side of the bed. Fortunately, Tommy had the chamber pot handy, and I spewed the contents of my stomach into it. “What’s wrong with me?”
Tommy laughed. “I was afraid you might have this reaction to all the gin you drank last night.”
I glared at him through the fringe of hair that hung in my eyes. “It’s not kind to mock the afflicted, Smythe. I’m dying, I tell you.”
“No, you’ve got a hangover.”
“I never have a hangover,” I declared, affronted.
“You’ve never drunk that much gin before.”
“Well, actually, I’ve never drunk gin before
