11
Through dry, blurry eyes, I handed Remy a stack of postcards.
“You look like s**t,” he noted. “You’re even wearing the same clothes.”
“I was working at the chapel all night,” I said.
Thankfully, Frankie had me working at the front desk instead of traipsing around Vegas with the rest of the crew. I think he took pity on me since I was shoeless.
“You’re lucky I’m here at all. I nearly had an accident trying to get these cards from my apartment.”
“Sit down,” he ordered. “You’re starting to sway. Forget exercising this morning. Do you need a ride home? I don’t think I trust you to drive yourself home.”
“I’ll grab some coffee on my way out. Let me know if you figure out the postcards.” I turned to leave. I had to get home . . . and soon. The room seemed to tilt, my eyes were dry slits
