Page 1 of Wasted On You

Chapter1

Mike Paul wokeup in the dark. His head ached, his tongue was ten times too big, and his eyes felt as if they were held open by toothpicks.

“Shit,” he muttered, blinking rapidly in an effort to get his bearings. Where the hell was he?

He half stumbled to his feet, banged his knee against something hard, and swore a blue streak as he made his way forward, arms waving like a zombie. He found a wall. And a light switch. Then groaned and rested his head against said wall. After a few moments, the room stopped spinning, so he flipped the switch and slid open one eye. He spied a picture of a horse on the wall to his right. It looked like Shank, his first quarter horse. Then he turned a bit and saw a desk. The one he’d just banged his knee on.

Okay. This was good. He knew where he was. Though how in hell he’d gotten to his office was anyone’s guess. His memory was as fuzzy as his damn tongue. The last thing he remembered was tying one on at the Sundowner.

Mike Paul waited until his head stopped swimming, then yanked open the door. He slowly made his way past reception, then out into a cold winter’s night. He didn’t feel the chill even though he only wore a T-shirt and jeans. He supposed that was on account of the alcohol in his system. Damn. All he wanted was water, a mouthful of aspirin, and his bed.

Bleary-eyed, he walked through snow drifts, not noticing the truck parked behind his Dodge. His neck ached like a son of a bitch, and his guts rolled precariously. Shit, he hadn’t been sick off booze in years. Not since his college days. It was a lame move on his part, and he grimaced as he took one step up onto the porch. He grabbed the railing and was about to take another when his front door swung open, bathing him in a swath of light that blinded him.

“What the hell?” he said, trying to see past all the stars that danced in front of his eyes.

“You look like shit.” Millie Sue Bridgestone, one of his best friends and an all-around pain in the ass, sounded pissed off.

“I feel worse,” he managed to say before dragging his butt the rest of the way up and staggering past her into his home. His dogs, two of them, Wiener and Bun, nearly knocked him over with wet noses, wetter tongues, and way too much enthusiasm for…

“What time is it?”

“Six o’clock.”

“It’s nighttime, right?”

Millie Sue raised an eyebrow. The left one, which meant she wasn’t amused.

“Shit what day is it?”

“Seriously?” The eyebrow inched higher.

“Seriously.”

“Jesus, Mike Paul. It’s Sunday night.” Millie Sue walked past him. “Follow me.”

Like a duckling following its mama, he walked behind her to the kitchen and grabbed a stool at the counter. He propped up his body with his elbows on the table and rested his head in his palms. The dogs, thank God, knew enough to leave him alone. They ran to their beds, currently located near the fireplace, and proceeded to happily lick their balls.

Lucky bastards.

“Take these.” Millie Sue handed him three white tablets and a big glass of water. Once he downed them, he heaved a sigh and shook his head.

“I don’t remember last night.”

“Really,” she said, her tone conversational as she pulled up a chair. “You don’t remember hopping on stage and grabbing the mike off Sam, who, by the way, was in the middle of his signature song.”

“Hotel California?”

“That would be the one.”

“Shit,” he muttered. “I don’t want to hear anymore.”

Millie Sue ignored him and made a face. “You belted out, ‘There’s a tear in my Beer,’ and followed that up with ‘Your cheatin’ Heart.’ And honey, you can’t carry a tune to save your life.”

He groaned. “Why did you let me do that, Mills?”

“I tried to stop you,” she paused dramatically, “because trust me, it was hard to watch.”

“That bad, huh?”

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