33

Eighteen

Dominick

“A

re you alive?” Brett asked as I answered his call. “Or half-dead, like me?”

I rubbed my temples, staring at the coffee on my desk, wishing it were already down my throat and that the Tylenol had kicked in, this headache relentlessly throbbing. “What the fuck happened last night? I remember dinner and going to the bar. After about our third shot of whiskey, my memory becomes very hazy.”

“That’s because we finished that bottle.” He sighed. “According to the receipt I’m holding, we polished off a bottle of vodka too.”

“Between the three of us?”

“I believe Ford showed up at some point, but I’m not entirely sure about that. I could have dreamed it.”

“Fuck me.”

He laughed. “How’s Jenner feeling?”

I’d passed him about twenty minutes ago on the way to my office, his skin as white as the shirt he’d paired with his suit. “Same as us. I think he’s flying out in a couple hours—can you even fucking imagine? My head is turbulent enough right now. I certainly don’t need to be in