The sharp trill of the room phone ripped Drew from a dream in which Roger was trying to convince Drew to take up snowboarding. Drew was in the middle of telling Roger he was all kinds of f****d in the head when he was blasted back into reality. The rosy light falling across the bed through a crack between the blackout curtains elicited a curse.
Drew pawed around on the bedside table to find the shrieking phone.
“Seriously, I’m going to strap that b***h to your forehead, dude. You need to answer your goddamned cell. I’ve called you like six times.” Roger’s voice cracked. He’s pissed.
“Dude, I fell asleep, sorry,” Drew said. He looked across the dimly lit room at the decorative mirror and the reflection of his disheveled hair—matted in some places and sticking up at odd angles in others.
