Page 7 of Calamity Rayne Gets Hitched

“Stop being a baby. You’re holding that thing like you’re afraid it’s gonna run away. It can’t be that bad.”

“You hit me in the nuts with a cell phone! It hurts!”

I threw Barrett’s pants at his chest. “This is threat level midnight! Get dressed.”

Shoving the clothes aside, he yanked the covers over him. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“The hell you are!” I snatched the blanket, triggering an intense game of tug of war.

“Seriously?” He threatened to let go of the sheet. “Do you really want to pull that?”

I released the blankets. That thing was literally the size of the Death Star. And Chew-cock-a had enough screen time today.

“Please get up and get dressed. Hale’s probably halfway here.”

He groaned and shoved the pillow against his head. “Your voice is sharper than a dog whistle. Fuck off.”

“You’re acting like a man-shaped bag of crap right now! Barrett, you need to get out of here! Your brother will be here in—” I tapped my phone screen to see the time. “Oh my, God. Enough nursing your coin purse. Get up!”

I snatched the sheet, but rather than respond with the modesty of a normal human being, he posed like a cocky nude model of a Roman orgy painting.

I shielded my eyes. “Gah, you’re so gross!”

“You know, most women love looking at me.”

I scowled over my shoulder. “I’m not most women.”

“There’s no shame in admitting you like the view. I know the gods spanked me with the handsome stick.”

“I think you were spanked in the head. Stop being an egotistical dick face and get—ugh.” I shoved my fist into my side, fighting back another wave of nausea.

“Meyers?”

I swallowed but my mouth watered like a broken faucet. “I feel…” Oh, it was bad. “Shiny.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t look shiny. You look a little tarnished and green. Sort of like the washed-up corpse of Chester Copperpot.”

I hunched forward and grasped the dresser. I could hardly move without feeling sick. “What the hell did we drink last night?”

“I think this is more than booze.”

“What? You mean… d—drugs?”

“Maybe.”

I didn’t do drugs. I didn’t know how to get them or prepare them. Hopefully, this wasn’t anything worse than giggle dirt. Hale was not into the drug scene.

I looked at Barrett. “You think we were slipped the ganja?”

“Possibly. Or something worse.”

“Worse? What’s worse? Huhp—” I dry heaved and belched, breaking into a full-body sweat. My body felt like a duck trying to escape the inside of a beaver.

He cupped his head. “Maybe someone slipped us something. Acid or molly or coke.” He groaned. “But I don’t think the devil’s dandruff lingers like this.”

“What year are you in? No one does coke anymore! I don’t even know what Molly is. And where the hell would we get acid? It was my rehearsal dinner not a Woodstock concert.”

“Drugs are everywhere, Meyers?—”

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