Chapter 7
“Cam’s Cliché Hotline. How may I be of assistance?”
-Cam
Not again.
Every time I do shots at Patty’s, I wake up with song lyrics bouncing around my head the following day. This morning it’s about a straight tequila night. Damn thing has been on a loop for at least an hour, and it’s annoying the shit out of me. I think about emergency management procedures. I go over my latest case in my head. Nothing chases away that fucking song.
I sit up in bed.
Immediate mistake.
My brain feels like the jaws of life are splitting that sucker apart.
I grab my head and groan.
Making matters worse is the bright as fuck sunshine blazing through the window. My face is a magnet for the sunbeams. I turn away from the sun and realize I’m not at my home.
Buzz. Buzz.
My phone buzzes from somewhere on the floor.
Someone else’s floor.
Someone else who’s snoring beside me, face down on the bed.
I take a good look. He’s broad-shouldered. The strong lines of his back taper to a narrow waist that rounds back out over his tight ass. I push back the desire to pinch it to see if it’s as tight as it looks. I probably already did that last night anyway. I’m a little fuzzy on the details.
Tight Ass Man snorts and coughs in his sleep. I freeze, waiting to see if he wakes up and makes this awkward. One beat. Two. Then, his breathing evens out again.
That’s when I realize I’d hooked up with a dark-haired guy.
Panic wells up in my chest.
Black hair is no fun. It’s bad news. Boring. Zero stars. Do not recommend.
I avoid dark-haired guys like asbestos.
I have to get out of here.
Buzz. Buzz.
Fuck.
My phone won’t stop. That means it’s a family member. Likely Mama.
If I don’t answer in the next thirty seconds, she’ll call in a wellness check with the local police department.
How would she know I’m no longer undercover?
No idea. But she’s my Mama. She has a sixth sense about these things.
I slip out of bed, rounding up my clothes from where they are scattered about the spartan room. My jeans on a nearby cardboard box. My T-shirt crumpled next to the door. My bra on the lampshade.
Cliché much, Cam?
Buzz. Buzz.
