Wild Hunger (The Phoenix Pack, #7)(70)

She tried, but the light stabbed her eyeballs. Rookie mistake. “Just let me die in peace,” she begged. She didn’t want him there, laughing at her. She wanted painkillers. Frankie + Tylenol = BFFs.

Trick kissed her bare shoulder, wondering if he should tell her that not only did she have supremely bad bedhead, but her makeup was smeared all over her face. It could motivate her to get into the shower, but it could just as easily motivate her into hiding under the covers.

He was surprised that she hadn’t spent the night vomiting, given how many cosmos and beers she’d consumed. She’d only thrown up once, just before she tumbled into dreamland. “I almost had to tie you to the bed last night. After you yacked in the bathroom, you declared you wanted to go to Taco Bell. You were adamant about it, so I said that if you rested for ten minutes, I’d take you. Thankfully, you fell asleep.”

Frankie squeezed her eyes shut. No, that hadn’t happened. It hadn’t. It couldn’t have. Fuck, that had actually happened! Oh, she was 100 percent sad. Just. Sad. That much was totally without question.

Trick lifted the glass from the nightstand. “Here. Drink this.”

“Will it help me die quicker?”

“It’s water.”

Water . . . Oh, that sounded good. She couldn’t take the bitter taste in her mouth much longer. Carefully lifting her head, she waited until the urge to gag faded and then slowly sat upright. He put the glass to her lips, and she sipped at the water, almost tearing up with happiness when he placed two Tylenol in her hand.

She swallowed them, studying him through squinty eyes. He’d clearly showered and dressed. The bastard looked fresh and . . . alert. How was that even possible? Her memories were fuzzy, but she did remember him drinking several beers. “Why aren’t you hungover?”

He shrugged. “I don’t really get hangovers.”

“I despise you right now.”

His mouth curved. “You love me. You know it. You just feel awkward saying it.”

Her spine would have snapped straight if her body didn’t badly lack energy. “My, my, my, aren’t we full of ourselves?” Not that he was wrong.

He just chuckled. “You need to get up, showered, and dressed.”

That would require fine motor skills, which meant it was a no-go. “Later,” she mumbled. He pressed his fingertips to her temples and began a light massage. That confirmed it. He was an angel sent directly from heaven. “My eyes are bloodshot, aren’t they?”

“Yep. But they’re still beautiful,” he said gently.

She grunted. “I remember somebody crying. It wasn’t me, was it?”

His mouth twitched into a smile. “No, it wasn’t you. It was Greta. Roni managed to get her smashed, and—for just a few hours—the woman was almost well adjusted. You don’t remember singing ‘Greased Lightning’ with her on the karaoke?”

“Now you’re just lying.”

“It’s true,” he said, chuckling.

“Another lie.” But his words did tug at a memory she never wanted to access, for the sake of her own sanity. “I do remember Taryn and Jaime setting up the karaoke in the living area. And I remember Dominic sang ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ while all the females cheered him on like it was a concert.”

Trick gave her a look filled with sympathy. “Baby, you were one of those females. In fact, you were leading the ‘Dominic Brigade.’” He’d have been jealous if it hadn’t been so damn ridiculous. Even his wolf had been amused.

“I was not. Why was Greta crying?”

“Because she was so happy that her boys had found themselves mates that were worthy of them. Or at least that’s what she said.”

Frankie gaped. “No!”

“Oh yeah. You don’t remember wiping her tears with the bottom of your shirt?”

“No. For which I’m glad.”

“You also took some selfies of you both, pouting like supermodels.”

“Stop lying!”

Trick laughed. “It’s not a lie. Check your cell phone.”

“Later.” Once she was in a state where she could handle the shame.

“Yes, later. Now you need to shower.”

He helped her out of bed, but she still swayed. Bracing her hand on the wall, she said, “I’m okay. I’ve got this.”

She showered and dressed, every movement clunky and lazy and pitiful. Then she was walking alongside him through the tunnels, her footsteps dragging, her arms hanging loose at her sides. Leaving her bed had truly been a mistake. At first she’d felt a little better. Now she was back to wanting to curl up on the floor and die.

As they neared the kitchen, the smell of greasy food made her stomach roll. But her attention was on the sound of someone crying. No, a recording of someone crying.

“I love you, Taryn,” sobbed Greta. “I really do. I should have told you that before.”

A loud voice overrode the recording. “That is not me.”

“Greta, it’s a video,” said Taryn. “We can all see you on it, clear as day.”

“It’s not me,” Greta insisted.

“Woman, we know what you look like.”

At that moment Frankie and Trick walked into the kitchen. Heads turned their way, and several pairs of bloodshot eyes met theirs. It made her feel slightly better to know that she wasn’t the only one suffering . . . though she had to admit that none of them looked quite as bad as her.