“What?”
“You told Elizabeth.”
“I did not.” I check my phone. No calls to her.
“Texts.”
I check my text history. Oh, shit. I told her I would, even though she said I didn’t have to. But I insisted. Always ready to help out for a good cause.
Great. What was I thinking? Well, the real question is, was I even thinking? Apparently not, because I’m in bed with Nate. At least we’re both fully clothed.
I close my eyes and press the heels of hands into my eye sockets. Do I still have to be auctioned off if I pop my eyeballs out?
Probably.
It’s for the kids who have cancer, moron. Just do it. Or be the dick who doesn’t give a fuck.
But what if Pascal hears about it and gets pissed?
She isn’t here, is she? Besides, is she going to be happy with a guy who turns a blind eye to suffering children? She said your ability to make people happy is your greatest asset. Be the man she can be proud of.
Fuck you, brain. You’re a dick.
Still, I grit my teeth, stumble to the bathroom and down a handful of aspirin. Two breaths later, I decide that they’re taking too damn long to kick in. I need an aspirin IV.
I lift my head and see my reflection, then shudder. I look like a horror movie villain. Bloodshot eyes. Shit, even the skin around my eyes is bloodshot. Dark circles the size of moon craters. Hair sticking up like I French-kissed an electrical socket. For all I remember—or don’t—I might’ve done just that.
This is why I don’t drink a lot.
But somehow, last night…it just seemed fitting. I taste a bitterness that has nothing to do with old scotch as my gaze lands on the bottles of lotion Skittles left behind. I thought she’d come back for them…and we’d have a chance to talk when she was calmer. But that hasn’t happened.
Why the fuck not, Skittles? Why won’t you even listen to me?
I close the bathroom door, strip and shower. I need something to make me feel human again, even though I’m feeling deader than a desiccated zombie. A long, hot shower is somewhat refreshing, so now I feel like a brand-new zombie, rather than a hundred-year-old fossil.
After wrapping myself in a robe, I get out. Nate’s managed to get himself sitting up on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. “Do you think I can tell her I’m too sick to be auctioned off?”
“You might dissuade Georgette the psycho from bidding if you throw up on stage.”
He perks up a little.
Only Nate would seriously think about tossing his cookies on stage in front of everyone. On the other hand, if I had an ex like Georgette after me…
I let him use the bathroom so he won’t embarrass me. I even let him borrow my clothes, because friends don’t let friends go out in stale, scotch-smelling outfits. Then we go down to the kitchen to rehydrate. Nate looks like he’s headed for the gallows.
“You know, the auction won’t be that bad,” I say, making some dry toast to help settle our guts. It’s supposed to soak up all the extra poison.
He munches on his slice. “How come?”
“You have a backup plan, right? Your assistant is going to bid on you, just to make sure.”
“Something like that.”
“So you’re safe. I’m not. Georgette might decide to bid on me instead.”
“No, she won’t. You’re not her type.”
“She has a type?”