28
My head hurt with the fury of a hangover after a bender of well drinks and cheap wine. My stomach threatened to erupt like Vesuvius. I couldn’t remember why I was hungover. No memories of a wild night at the bars. Nothing to explain the handcuffs or the improvised gag.
“Who the heck are you?” a male voice asked.
My vision was a bit doubled as my eyes fluttered open. I managed to make out a man with long, straight black hair and tan skin. I guessed he was Native American or Latino. He stood above me, a nervous look on his face, pointing the Taser at my chest.
“I’m sorry I hit you. But . . .” He glanced at the girl with the bristly hair who was standing beside him. “So who are you?”
I gave them an incredulous look and a muffled grunt. Like, how was I supposed to answer with a gag in
