Page 44 of Burning Up

But the horrid squawk wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think. He tried moving again. His stomach wasn’t pleased, but he managed to shift toward the edge of the bed without puking. The alarm clock. That terrible noise was coming from the alarm clock.

He fought against the fuzz that surrounded his brain. What day was it? How long had he been asleep? He squinted at the bright red numbers on the clock, fighting nausea as he tried to read them. Three minutes after five. In the afternoon? Probably, judging by the death rays the sun was shooting into his bedroom.

Why would an alarm go off at five PM? Work. Shit. He’d taken a nap before work. Or judging from the jackhammers going in his head, he’d passed out. He was supposed to be at Nathan’s in half an hour. How long had the damn clock been screaming at him?

With a sickening twist of his gut, he remembered why he’d gotten drunk in the middle of the morning. He’d broken up with Toby and Matt. He’d dismissed them as nothing more than a hot fuck. He tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed and immediately knew if he stood up, he’d vomit. Phone. Where was his phone?

He saw his pants on the floor by the bed. Bending over didn’t seem like a reasonable proposition, but he managed to lift them with his toes. Thank God his phone was in his pocket and hadn’t fallen out. He squinted at it; why the fuck was the screen so bright? Finally he managed to find the number. Kyle answered. “Nathan’s. What can we do for you?”

“It’s Bryce.”

“Are you okay? You sound like hell.”

“Yeah. Feel like it too. Not going to make it in today.” He forced each word out as he fought the urge to be sick.

“Okay, I’ll tell Elizabeth. Were you working till close?”

“No. Midnight.”

“All right. I can stay for your shift. I need the money anyway.”

“Thanks.” Bryce ended the call and lay back, taking slow breaths and wishing the room would stop spinning. Was he still drunk?

The next time he woke, it was to pounding. At first he dismissed it as something happening to his head, but eventually he had to accept that it was truly coming from somewhere else.

“Bryce, you in there? You okay?”

Was that Mason? At his door?

He really didn’t want to get up, but Mason sounded ready to break the door down. After he’d taken his first shuffling steps toward the door, the pounding stopped and his phone sang a line from a Beyoncé song, the obnoxious ring Mason had set for himself.

Bryce ignored the phone and kept moving toward the door, since turning around seemed too complicated. When he looked through the peephole, he saw Mason standing on the stoop, phone to his ear.

Bryce fumbled with the lock, finally managing to get the door open.

“What the fuck?” Mason said, gaping at him.

“Get in here,” he growled.

“What happened to you?” Mason reiterated his question once Bryce had shut the door.

“I’m sick.”

“You’re hungover.”

Bryce merely grunted.

“Bryce, what is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t get wasted in the middle of the day and call into work because of nothing,” Mason insisted.

“I’m sick. Everybody gets sick.”

“You are not sick.”

“Fine. You’re going to find out anyway. If I tell you, will you shut up and leave me to die in peace?”

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