Sam Stryker woke like he had just recovered from the plague. He felt that crappy. His head pounded. His mouth was dry and really skanky. Every one of his limbs felt achy.
He stared at the ceiling, and for a moment, tried to process which hotel and what city he was in.
Oh, yeah. No publicity tour. He was in Mammoth with the guys. And last night he’d done a world of drinking. Clearly way more than he should have.
And Lord, he needed a shower. Maybe two. He sniffed his armpit. Yeah. Two showers. He struggled to sit upright in the tangle of covers. He wore only his boxer briefs, and as he sat up, he came to the realization there was a definite chill in the room.
He turned his head to look out the window, but the blinds were closed, blocking the daylight.
What the hell time was it anyway?
