It's early and Angel lies curled up on her side, spooned into my body. The other side of the bed is empty. I disengage myself and search out Monroe.
It's time to talk.
When I fail to find him in the usual places, I go to the den. Monroe sits in his large overstuffed chair drinking from a half-filled tumbler. He doesn't acknowledge me, just lifts the glass to his slightly swollen lip, and takes a deep drink, draining the glass.
I clear my throat and Monroe's head comes up. "I know it's five o'clock somewhere, but even for you, this is a little excessive."
"I will not disagree."
That's magnanimous for him. "Are you in pain?"
His laugh. It vibrates through me. "Do you mind if I ask how much you've had?"
"Not enough," he grunts.
This is not the Monroe I know. The man was born from alie
