Sometime later, Lane woke again when his phone rang.
His head still hurt, but not as badly as it had before. The light had shifted; the room was no longer gray and indistinct but bright and sunny, the blinds awash with morning sun. He rolled onto his back and squinted blearily as he fumbled for his iPhone on the bedside table. In reaching for it, though, he somehow hit the wrong button, and declined the call instead of answering it. “f**k,” he muttered, falling back to the pillow, phone in hand.
Beside him, Remy stirred. “Who was it?” his lover asked sleepily.
Lane fiddled with the phone, trying to ignore the headache that was threatening to flare back to full intensity as he looked at his missed calls. Before he got to them, though, the phone rang again. “It’s Ange. Calling to b***h us
