Page 25 of Look What You Made Me Do

“This better be good,” he growled as he punched the answer button.

“Good, you’re awake.” Pete’s chipper voice grated along nerve endings that already felt like they’d spent the entire night on the rack.

“What the hell time is it?”

“Two.”

Jake turned his head toward the sliver of light he could see through a gap in the heavy black-out curtains covering the window. “Twop.m.?”

Where the hell was he? A bunker? A dungeon? A coffin?

As much as it hurt to think, he searched back into the abyss that was last night. There was poker. And drinking. And a girl. He reached out a hand and came in to contact with a warm naked thigh. The woman attached murmured something and rolled toward him, draping herself across his chest, her hand sliding down to the flat of his belly.

Crap!

“Uh huh. You have to be at the school in an hour.”

Jake groaned. He wanted to crawl into a corner somewhere and die. He did not want to run around a football field with a bunch of rag-tag high school amateurs. At the moment, getting out of bed seemed way too big an effort.

But then a picture of Ella’s strained face at Cameron’s insult the other night floated through the ninety-proof quagmire of his brain and he sighed. “Okay. I’ll be there.”

“Cool.”

Jake squinted into the darkness. “Er, Pete? I don’t suppose you happen to know where I am?”

Pete laughed. “Sure, I dropped you and fan-girl back at her place last night. Would you like me to come pick you up?”

Fan-girl’s hand moved lower and he grabbed it before it reached ground zero. “Hurry.”

Jake winced as he climbed into the passenger seat of his car and was greeted by an unbearable blare of noise that was the musical equivalent of fingernails down a blackboard.

He reached for the dial and turned it down. “Jesus, Pete.”

Pete grinned. “I hope we practiced safe sex?”

Jake glared at him. “What are you, my pimp?”

“Actually.” He laughed. “I think I am.”

Jake contemplated murder as Pete’s laughter ricocheted like jackhammers inside his head. “I should have left you on the streets,” he muttered.

Pete laughed even harder. “We’re late. Ella’s going to be ticked.”

Well, Ella could get in line. He was pretty annoyed at himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d written himself off enough to cause amnesia.

Maybe two years ago when the Founders had given him his marching orders?

Had he practiced safe sex? Hell, had he even had sex? He’d woken up with his clothes on and somehow, he seriously doubted he’d have been capable…

Christ, he’d never not been capable.

Jake shut his eyes, his head throbbing double-time the harder he tried to remember. Unfortunately, not even the combination of closed lids, an ultra-dark window tint and his aviator sunglasses was able to block the stab of harsh afternoon sunlight filtering through the smoky glass into his eyeballs.

They felt as if they’d been ripped out, stood on, rolled in shell grit then stuffed in back to front.

His head sank back gratefully into the spongy luxury of the leather interior as the powerful engine of his BMW surged forward. Thankfully, Pete didn’t try to communicate any further and the construction crew in his head downed tools for a while.

He wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed when the car glided to a halt, but he knew he was going to need a hell of a lot more to even begin feeling human again. He peered out the window at a poorly maintained field. The grass was patchy and mostly weeds. Large areas were totally bare. The posts had rust stains and the score board was peeling and listed to one side.

---