Fumbled (Playbook #2)(65)

After learning about Marlee Pope’s induction into the Lady Mustangs, which resulted in the Mustangs organization hiring Jane and creating the Family Programs department, aka the WAGS babysitters and liaisons, I couldn’t have been more thankful my reunion with TK happened three years AM (After Marlee). And while I was shocked to learn about the wives leaking information to the press and spreading nasty rumors about girlfriends, I was not shocked to find out Dixie was front and center in all the drama.

You just can’t trust someone with hair as big as hers.

No.

That’s a lie. Her big hair is both mysterious—how the hell does she get it so high?—and fabulous. We’ve all seen Dolly, right?

It’s the unmoving forehead that really freaks me out. I mean, what’s the point? Nobody is telling George Clooney to fill his wrinkles. Just another bullshit, unrealistic standard we hold women to. Anyway, sorry, not the point. The point is Dixie seems like a bitch and I was happy to learn my bitch-o-meter wasn’t broken.

A plus for me, Brynn is so into the Lady Mustangs and all that comes with them, she closes down HERS every third Wednesday of the month during football season and lets them meet there. This way she can stay in the know without relying on anybody’s faulty memory—her words, not mine.

So while it might end up being awful, at least it’s convenient.

Once the tequila fully invaded my system, Charli and Vonnie volunteered to see me home and Sadie called an Uber to pick her up.

Sadie might make questionable life decisions almost daily, but she doesn’t ever drive if she’s had so much as a single glass of wine.

Once she threw herself into the front seat, her boobs damn near falling out of her scoop-neck tank and causing her Uber driver to turn bright red and stutter for almost a minute straight, they took off and so did we. Luckily Vonnie stopped drinking when the Lady Mustangs story began, saying she needed to be sober to insure the quality of the information I was being fed.

When we pulled up to my house, the porch light was on and TK was standing in the doorway before I was out of the car.

Now, this part is kind of a blur—I can’t remember if Vonnie and Charli hit on or threatened him. I’m pretty positive he ended up carrying me to bed. In fact, considering the not-at-all-sober state I was in, me lying in my bed and not sprawled out on the floor is all the proof I need that TK deposited me here.

Noise coming from outside my closed door sends my pounding headache into overdrive. I’m not a doctor, so I don’t know the technicalities about what happens during a migraine, but when I close my eyes, I can almost see my expanding brain thrashing against my skull.

I’d cry out in pain, but my mouth is so dry, I think my tongue might be stuck to the roof of my mouth.

I thought leaving a club and working at a respectable establishment would prevent events like last night from happening.

Guess I was wrong.

I crack open my eyes, but the sun pouring in through the bargain blinds I ordered from Groupon sends a shooting pain through my head so sharp I have to swallow back the bile threatening to ruin my favorite sheets.

I try to close my eyes and go back to sleep, but the noise inside my house has steadily been rising in volume. There are multiple voices, two I recognize, others I do not.

I hide my head under my pillows, determined to sleep until I feel human again, when the pounding in my head hits even harder.

Wait.

Not in my head.

Actual pounding outside my window. Followed by the unmistakable and never more unwelcome sound of a power drill.

“What the hell?” I say into my pillows.

This time, when I open my eyes, the sun is blocked out, thanks to the pillow barrier over my head. I lift it off my head at a snail’s pace, and even though I’d rather be surrounded by a cloak of darkness, I’m supergrateful to see a tall glass of water and a bottle of Advil on my nightstand.

Maybe this living-with-TK thing will work out after all.

I sit up, clenching my eyes shut to try and combat the pulsating torture I’ve inflicted upon myself, and reach blindly for the medicine that—fingers crossed—will return me to my human state. I crack open one eye, count out four pills, and toss them in my mouth. I gulp the water, washing down the pills, then keep chugging until the very last drop is gone.

Too bad for me, they really are just pain relief and not a magic potion to quiet the world around me and let me recover in peace. I know this because all the noise still hasn’t stopped. In fact, it might be even louder.

Because why the hell wouldn’t it be?

I roll out of bed.

Literally.

I put out my arms, trying to catch myself so my face doesn’t slam into the floor, and I guess I’m semisuccessful. Only semi because my lower body moves with the grace of a dead fish and my knees hit the ground so hard, I’m sure they’ll be a lovely shade of purple tomorrow.

I grab my nightstand and pull myself up, mentally preparing to start my day and power out of my room before I can change my mind.

What I had envisioned as me barging out of my room, demanding to know what nonsense was taking place in my house, ends up being more of a hobble into my living room filled with people I don’t know, being ordered around by my nine-year-old son.

I almost call it a day and go back into my room until I can wake up tomorrow, calling for a redo. But Ace sees me and ruins my plans.

“Mom!” he shouts, unaware not only that I’m suffering from the worst hangover of my life but also what a hangover is in the first place. “Isn’t this awesome?” He’s bouncing up and down, his arms spread wide, motioning to the strangers dotting my house.