18
Ming-Mei awoke with a damned sore neck and an angry woman glaring at her.
She slid upward in her chair and winced. A one-handed massage of the base of her skull didn’t help. It was only a muscle kink from her sleeping posture—Max had gone easy on the alcohol for the latter part of the evening—but she was annoyed anyway. Brooke must be a lot worse off. She looked it.
“How are you feeling?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Ming-Mei.”
“Did Max have s*x with me last night? Or Clay? Or you?”
“Is there a reason you think someone had s*x with you? Apparently, you don’t trust your memory.”
Brooke frowned. “OK, yeah, I got pissed. It happens when I experiment with cocktails. I never learn. But I don’t remember anything about last night after I got up to sing. A Reba McEntire song that went over pretty w
