Chapter Eighteen
I come to my senses with the worst headache.
No. To call this a headache is an understatement. My head feels like it’s been run through an industrial-strength blender.
Did an NFL player borrow my head? If so, he clearly played without a helmet… and lost.
I groan.
If pain could be turned into a smell, my headache would reach the levels of taranka. Or fermented boiled cabbage. Or one of those numbered Chanel atrocities.
Oh, and headache aside, why do I feel so cold, like I’m naked? And sticky. I feel very sticky for some reason. Not to mention, there’s a soreness in my lower body. More than one type of soreness.
What the f**k?
A male groan mirrors my own from somewhere.
Okay, so wherever I am, I have company in my misery.
Time to pry open my eyes. Except… my eyelid
