Page 94 of Spilled Coffee

Brick groaned low and deep as he stretched his arms high above his head. His joints cracking was the only sound in the otherwise silent room. His muscles ached with a dull throb that felt like a penance for something he couldn’t remember.

Blinking against the harsh glare filtering through the windows, he swore under his breath. “Shit,” his voice was gravelly, like sandpaper had been dragged across his vocal cords.

Raising a hand to rub his temple, he winced, then pressed his fingers into a particularly tender spot. “What the fuck happened?” he asked aloud, the words heavy with confusion and regret.

There was no answer to his questions. Rolling onto his side, he gave another louder groan, then brushed his hand against his ribs where a dull ache radiated, though for the life of him he couldn’t remember why.

Something wasn’t right—something beyond the usual hangover—an unease crawling just beneath his skin.

There was a low groan behind him. Not just any groan. The sound was soft but unmistakable, and it sent an icy chill racing down Brick’s spine.

He froze, every nerve in his body snapping to attention as the lump shifted beneath the quilt, a slow, lazy stir that made his heart pound harder than it already was.

Forcing himself to breathe, he stared at the large shape, its identity frustratingly obscured by layers of fabric and the bright sunlight streaming through the open blinds.

He spotted a familiar sight poking out from one corner. His hat sat crookedly atop what appeared to be someone’s head, tilted at an angle that suggested careless abandon rather than intentional placement.

Relief flooded through him, and for a brief moment a faint smile tugged at his lips.

“Abbey?” he croaked, though doubt lingered even as he said her name. Maybe Lisa? Hell, both women had been here last night, that much he did remember.

Reaching out, his fingers moved against what should have been soft curves. Instead, they met something solid—unyielding muscle that was definitely not feminine.

Fuck.

He swallowed, yanking his hand back as though he’d burned it. His stomach twisted as realization slammed into him like a freight train, his heart stuttering before taking off at a breakneck pace that left him dizzy and gasping for air. “What the hell?” hechoked, panic clawing its way up his throat as he scrambled out of bed on shaky legs.

The room spun wildly, nausea surging up from his stomach. He barely managed to keep upright, gripping the edge of the mattress for support.

The lump under the quilt moved again, but this time it was more deliberate, and Brick watched in horror as Devon emerged from beneath it with all the nonchalance of someone waking up in their own bed after a nap.

His hair was mussed up from sleep, stray strands sticking out at odd angles while others fell lazily across his forehead.

He rubbed at his jaw absently before yawning loudly. “Morning,” he drawled, his voice carrying that smug undertone that Brick had always hated. He reached up casually and adjusted the hat atop his head like it belonged there.

Brick stared, mouth agape, eyes unblinking, as Devon leaned back against the headboard, the quilt pooled at his waist, exposing a bare chest and chiseled abs.

“Hey,” he said, cocking a brow quizzically before frowning at the look of sheer horror plastered across Brick’s face. “Relax, man,” he added with an exaggerated sigh before rubbing his temples dramatically like he had all day to deal with this mess. “You got any Advil? My head’s killing me.”

“Sure,” Brick snapped after several long moments spent trying—and failing—to process what was happening. His chest felt tight, like a vice was squeezing the air out of him, and panic clawed at his stomach, making his words come out uneven. “Why are you here?”

Devon didn’t flinch. His grin widened into a lazy and infuriatingly smug smile that filled his face. He was too calm, too knowing, as though he held a secret Brick wasn’t ready to hear. “You saying you don’t remember?” He laughed, the kind of laughthat made Brick’s skin prickle. Hell, it wasn’t just a laugh, it was a game, a twisted joke where Brick was the punchline.

“What... what do you mean I don’t remember?” Brick stumbled over his words as his frown deepened, confusion etched into every line of his face. He could feel his mind scrambling for memories that just weren’t there, blank spaces where last night should’ve been. “Did we…” His voice faltered, his throat tightening around the question. “I mean, I don’t…” He swallowed again, shaking his head as if it might shake loose some sliver of clarity. “I don’t do this. I’m not… why can’t I fuckin’ remember what happened?”

Devon stretched out like a cat, the cap on his head threatening to fall off but somehow staying put. “Well,” he drawled, dragging the word out as though savoring this moment, “we… y’know, we kept the party going after the club.” His grin curled into something wicked. “Tequila equals fun times, brah.” His voice dipped suggestively as he stretched his arms above his head, flexing his muscles.

Brick flinched. He could almost feel himself trembling, every nerve on edge, as Devon’s gaze seemed to strip him more bare than he already was. “And what the fuck does that mean?” he demanded.

Devon’s grin widened—which technically shouldn’t have been possible—and he laughed before swinging his legs off the bed.

He stood up, completely naked and utterly unashamed as he stretched yet again. The morning light caught every plane of his body, highlighting him like some kind of goddamn sculpture.

Brick turned away, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

“Look,” Devon said casually, as if they were discussing nothing more serious than breakfast plans. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to grab a quick shower before I head off.” He tilted his head and studied Brick’s expression, and for the first time sincethey’d met, the normal glimmer of amusement had faded. “You sure you’re okay? Only you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Oh, man…” Brick sunk down onto the bed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His hands went straight to his head, fingers digging into his temples, trying to will away the pounding ache pulsing at the back of his skull. “Fuck.”

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