An Inadvisable Plan
Flicka von Hannover
I can see him lying to Wulfram for me,
and I can see that it is killing him.
A rattling, a buzzing, an annoying hiss pressed on Flicka von Hannover’s ears and roused her from a blackout sleep.
Pain. All over.
Especially her head.
There had been a dream, something that meant warmth and comfort, but it had disintegrated when she tried to grab it. The feeling lingered, though, a calm glow that reassured her everything would be all right.
Buzzing, again.
A phone?
She raised her head off the pillow.
Bad move.
The room spun.
Flicka dug her fingers into the white sheets around her, trying to hold on and not puke. Her knuckles hurt.
Hangover,an epic one from the throbbing in her head and the dry leather of her tongue.
She’d kind of thought she was immune to hangovers, considering how much she drank every night of her life. Her liver was a champ that ate through alcohol like a rabid gopher. This was an unpleasant surprise.
Getting smashed had never made her whole body hurt, though.
Soreness squeezed the joints of her shoulders, elbows, and hips.
Her neck hurt, too, a lot. Her spine spiked pain, and her front ached like deep bruises. Even the inside of her throat hurt.
Her arms felt bruised, too, and wrenched.
And her nether-parts, or whatever the kids were calling it these days, felt sore and even stung.
A man’s voice said,“Ja,Durchlaucht?”
That was Dieter Schwarz’s low rumble and his nickname for Flicka’s older brother, Wulfram.
Dieter Schwarz, her ex?
Oh, Jesus.What had she done?
Flicka half-sat up, clutching the blankets to her shoulders.
Okay, she was wearing a tee shirt and was not naked.
But it wasn’t her tee shirt.
Dieter sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from her. His military-style haircut cut a precise, blond line above his strong neck and wide, wide shoulders. A white tee shirt and black pajama pants covered his broad back and narrow waist.
He held his hand, palm toward her, for silence.
