Chapter 6
Marcus isn’t sure at what point last night he rubbed sandpaper into his eyeballs, but he’s pretty positive he must have, because his eyelids sliding against them as they creak open is an unbearable torture, second only to the pounding pressure in his temples.
He winces as he blinks, looking up at a chipped ceiling with a wrinkled poster of The Weeknd taped over a particularly large crack. Letting his head loll to one side, he realizes that he’s lying on black satin sheets that smell like patchouli and hairspray. The wall in front of him is dominated by a large cork board flooded with concert tickets, cutouts from yoga magazines, and strings of beads. There’s a laundry basket on the floor overflowing with multicolored leggings and black lingerie.
This is probably not his room,
