So no.
I’m not marching out of the house to announce my plague.
I roll over, immediately regret it because my sinuses scream, and groan into my pillow.
I could call Spike.
But my phone is on the charger inside the clubhouse.
Of course it is.
It died last night while I was over there. I tossed it on someone’s charger…probably Skip’s because he hoards them like a dragon…and then completely forgot to grab it on my way home.
By the time I left, I was so out of it that all I wanted was my bed.
A bed that I didn’t even make it to.
Now I’m trapped on my stupid couch.
Sick.
Phone-less.
And too miserable to make it to my room.
I consider my options.
Option one: suffer in silence. I like this option.
Option two: text from my tablet…which is at my shop.
Option three: wear a mask and attempt to walk to the clubhouse looking like death warmed over and risk being quarantined by overprotective bikers who think a sneeze is biological warfare.
I groan again.
The smart thing would be to ask for help.
The responsible thing would be to stay put.
The Abby thing would be to tough it out until I collapse.
A knock sounds at my door.
I freeze.
Oh no.
Did I accidentally summon someone with my dramatic suffering?
“Abigail?” Tank’s voice calls softly through the wood. “You up?”
Of course, it’s him.
If I answer, he’ll know.
If he knows, he’ll worry.
If he worries, he’ll hover.
