Page 32 of Snake

But right now, she flopped the washcloth Cox had left for her over her head again. It wasn’t cold anymore, or particularly wet, but it soothed her anyway as she slipped back into oblivion.

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~oOo~

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When she opened her eyes again, she was bone-cold and stiff as ice, her heartbeat was a timpani drum behind her eyes—but her stomach seemed quieter. Apparently rumors of her death had been exaggerated. She pushed herself—slowly—up to sit cross-legged and leaned back against the wall. This time the room did not pitch like a fishing boat in a squall.

The ambient light through the open bathroom door reported that morning had broken; more than that, she still didn’t know. Her Apple watch was dead on her wrist, and her phone was ... she didn’t know. Maybe still in her jeans, which she’d discarded in a panic when she’d first wakened to profound illness and she’d started stripping before she’d rolled out of the bed.

Everything still hurt, but now less in the ‘I’m drowning in lava’ way and more in the ‘why did I drink so much’ way.

It didn’t matter what time it was. Until she had her shit together enough to face this day in particular and her life in general, she was going to sit right here on the bathroom floor, in her panties and nothing else, and focus on getting her shit together.

First and foremost: as badly as she wanted to sneak out of town and forget the words ‘Signal Bend’ had ever caught her attention, she now had enough command of her faculties to know she absolutely could not do that. She’d gone all in and way out on a limb on this project. If she tried and failed, her job was at risk; at the very least she could expect a demotion. But if she bailed on it, after convincing Chase not to lowball any sellers they’d closed deals with, not only her job but her entire career would go up in flames.

One drunken night, no matter how humiliating, could not undo her life’s work. She had to put on her big girl pants, do her makeup and hair, and go out into Signal Bend today like she had nothing to be embarrassed or afraid of.

Thinking the word afraid reminded her of the guy who’d slammed her to the wall and choked her. She put her hand to her throat; it was tender. Between the puking and the choking, that whole area was pretty unhappy this morning.

But a sore throat was invisible, and the same makeup that did such a good job concealing the freckles she despised would cover up whatever marks that jerk had left on her throat.

So. It was time to stand up and deal with her life.

Moving with experimental deliberation, Autumn rolled to her knees first. After years of yoga, she could normally rise from the floor without need of her hands, but she wasn’t taking any chances this morning (if in fact it was still morning). She put her hands on the side of the tub, put one foot under her, took a beat to make sure the world remained steady, then the other foot, and slowly eased upward until she was standing.

Her head thought this was a spectacularly disastrous idea, but other than the 1812 Overture going on inside her skull, she was solid. Solid-ish. Solid enough.

Then she got her first glimpse of herself in the mirror above the sink and just about passed out again.

Her hair was like a snarled ball of copper wire. Her smeared makeup and general unwellness had conspired to darken the skin beneath her eyes so she looked like a road-killed raccoon. And there was an actual purple hand on her throat. Four distinct fingers on one side, one doubly distinct thumb on the other.

Holy shit. Good thing she had the good makeup.

She started the shower and pulled her toothbrush and toothpaste out of her toiletry kit.

When she walked out into the world, even Daniel Cox himself would wonder if he’d imagined last night. Because she meant to look and behave as if nothing bad had ever happened to her and she felt fantastic.

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~oOo~

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Brushing the taste and feel of puke and stale Jameson out of her mouth made a measurable improvement. A long, hot shower full of all the pampering she’d brought with her—two shampooings, deep conditioner, face wash, body shampoo—got her to about fifty percent. Lotion after she dried off, wrapping herself in the B&B’s fluffy branded robe and matching slippers, and wrapping her wet hair in a fluffy towel, got her to the point where she thought she could face finding and checking her phone, dealing with whatever she found there. After an annoying call from Chase last evening, she’d silenced the ringer and the vibration before she’d left the room, so she was sure there was some kind of trouble in her texts by now.

After that, she could plan her day. Her big goal for this trip was to meet with Mark Kennerman—the new interim mayor, who’d finally closed the main deal, which had allowed her to close several smaller deals on adjacent properties—and enlist his help to get the bikers on board with this project.

A secondary goal was (had been?) some hearts-and-minds work, convincing the people here that she sincerely liked them and their town and wanted to do something good for it, that she wasn’t a ‘carpetbagger,’ or a ‘snake,’ or any other insult they’d hurled at her over the months. ‘Snake’ seemed to be their favorite—well, besides ‘bitch’ and ‘cunt.’

Anybody who said country people were more courteous than most had never pissed one off.

This morning, after last night, she figured the hearts-and-minds work was a lost cause. No Place had been pretty full last night; she remembered a crowd of people gathered when the guy had grabbed her. Maybe they’d been rooting for him. Surely they’d watched her get drunk. Probably (Autumn’s stomach stirred uncomfortably) they’d seen her puking in the grass.

She doubted anybody would be feeling sorry for her today. Or be glad to see her at all.

But that was okay. Their Spring Fling started this afternoon, and she’d be there, buying things from the booths, clapping at the floats in the parade, whatever she had to do to participate in a friendly, unthreatening way. And she’d work her ass off to get the Horde on board.

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