Frost (Frost and Nectar #1)(10)
I sat up, hoping that a more upright position might settle my stomach. As I did, more memories of last night slowly filtered into my brain.
Five pints of Guinness, the margarita pitcher, a karaoke rendition of “I Will Survive,” and I was pretty sure someone had kissed Threesome Steve. And I had the disturbing feeling that someone might have been me.
So many bad decisions.
Still, nothing was as horrifying as the memory of my conversation with King Torin. Had I really said the most powerful fae in the world was nothing more than a pretty, rich douchebag? That he was a fae Chad from Hitched and Stitched?
My stomach churned again, and I rose to stumble to Shalini’s bathroom. I hunched over her clean, white toilet, my mouth watery. When nothing came up, I stood and rinsed my face in the sink. I looked up at myself—the tangled mess of hair, circles under my eyes, my skin strangely pale.
At 5:03 a.m., I wandered back into Shalini’s neatly decorated living room. A box of donuts had been left out on the kitchen island, but the sight of them turned my stomach.
It was clear. Between my throbbing head, twisting stomach, and the horrible memories of last night, I wasn’t about to fall asleep anytime soon.
I crossed to Shalini’s bedroom and peeked in. She slept under her comforter, her dark hair spread out on the pillow. Passed out, sound asleep.
Rubbing my eyes, I tiptoed back into the living room. I couldn’t find the remote for the TV, and my cell phone was completely dead. I blinked at the sunlight that was already slanting in through the blinds. The hazy mist of memories of last night left me feeling jittery.
Maybe it was time to find a coffee shop, get some fresh air, head home— Oh, right. I didn’t have a home anymore. I turned, surveying the living room, where everything was in its right place, beautifully decorated in shades of camel and cream.
Everything except my gym bag, which lay on the floor by the end of the couch. I smiled. Seems Drunk Ava actually made a good decision. Maybe I could sweat out the alcohol. Before I met Andrew, I used to have months at a time of depression that would leave me drained of energy, lying in bed, unwashed and barely eating. I didn’t want to let myself slide down into that darkness again. And whenever the clouds had started to lift, it was always moving around outside—running, eventually— that had brought me back to life.
Picking up the duffle, I returned to the bathroom and changed into my running clothes. Then, as quietly as I could, I stuffed Shalini’s extra set of keys into my pocket and slipped out into the fresh air.
I hurried downstairs, past a row of mailboxes and into a small courtyard. Even in my abysmally hungover state, I had to admit it was an absolutely glorious morning. Not too hot, a pearly pink dawn sky, nearly cloudless. In the grass of the courtyard, a robin hunted for worms. Focus on the positive, Ava. I was alive, and it was a perfect day for a run.
And I wouldn’t let myself fall into a major depression over some dickhead.
It was only when I’d nearly reached the gate to the street that I noticed a white van with CTY-TV
emblazoned on its side in blue letters. As I realized what it was, a bright-eyed man with a microphone clutched in his fist jumped in front of me.
It was the reporter I’d seen on TV the night before. Oh, fuck.
“Ms. Jones,” he said briskly. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
I shook my head. “Don’t you need consent or something for this? I do not consent.”
The reporter acted like he hadn’t heard me. “Were you at the Golden Shamrock last night?”
“Maybe?” I tried to slip by him, but he blocked my way. Behind him, a woman had appeared with a large TV camera balanced on her shoulder.
Am I on TV?
“Are you an employee of the Red Stone Cocktail Bar in the South End?”
I felt queasy, and not just because I was hung over. They’d already found out where I worked.
What else did they know about me? I pushed past the reporter and tried to run toward the gate, but the camerawoman stepped in front of me.
“Ms. Jones.” The reporter was trying to sound pleasant and genial, even as his colleague boxed me in. “Can you tell us about what you said to the fae king?”
Maybe if it weren’t five a.m., and they hadn’t been trying to corner me, I would have tried to think of a good response. But at that moment, my head was still full of cotton, and I couldn’t come up with a single coherent thing.
“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I really don’t have time to talk to you right now.”
The camerawoman didn’t budge from the gate, and the reporter stood next to her now. Again, he thrust the microphone in my face. “Is it true you insulted the fae king? With words that we can’t play live on TV?”
“I was actually just about to go for a jog.” In the back of my mind, horror was dawning that Ashley and Andrew would be watching this. A drunken public meltdown, relived in every household in America. I closed my eyes, wishing the earth would swallow me up.
The TV announcer held up his cell phone so I could see the screen. “Is this you?”
Before I could reply, the video began to play. Even though it was low quality, I immediately recognized the interior of the Golden Shamrock.
“It is expected for the fae to bow to their king.” Torin’s velvety voice played through the phone, and without the haze of cheap beer, I felt the heavy weight of his voice settle over me.