The shrill ringing of her mobile sliced through her dreams. Allie groaned awake, experienced a moment of searing pain when she pried her eyes open and squeezed her lids shut again; she rolled over and buried her head under the pillow. After three rings, the phone cut to voicemail. The blessed silence lasts for maybe a minute. Then it rang again. Throwing off the covers, she set both feet on the floor, head pounding, vision swimming, and by the time she's managed to rise into a swaying stand, the phone fell silent again. Allie didn't trust it anymore, though, so she clambered across the room and fished it out of the jeans she'd kicked off last night, a carelessly crumpled heap. Two new voicemails, the phone's screen lit up. The information sat above the preview of a text from Ashton, and why is he even awake when it's, what, seven in the fucking morning?
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