I wake up Sunday morning with a huge headache in my bed at the hotel. Damn, that sangria must have been stronger than I thought.
I remember picking up April from her apartment, and thinking that while she looked cute, she wasn’t exactly sporting normal club wear. We parked at the hotel, because I figured that I was going to get my drink on, and I’m not stupid — I don't drink and drive.
I shake my head, as the night was a bit more hazy after the two girls showed up. I just know that I'm waking up alone in my hotel room, naked, and that my head feels a lot like when I did keg stands at Theta Kai Psi's spring bash as a junior. I roll up to a sitting position and rub my eyes, wondering what time it is.
A knock on my hotel door is steel darts through my temples and I stagger to my feet, my eyes mostly slitted closed as I make my way toward the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming . . . fuck . . ." I groan, finding the door and opening it.
April's there, and by the look on her face, I'm reminded that I'm naked. She turns a dusky, dark red and turns around after her eyes go wide, and I cup my cock and balls. "Sorry."
"Just . . . please go put some clothes on," she says, pissed off. I did just greet her with my birthday suit on, but hey, a lot of girls would love to see that. It's not the first time it's happened in my life, but usually I'm not doing it with a headache that threatens to split my skull in half.
"Yeah," I grumble, turning and walking away, forgetting until I hear a gasp behind me that again, my ass is literally in the breeze. "Sorry."
I retreat into the bed area of the room and pull on some Western workout shorts, the kind we'd wear for weightlifting, figuring that I'd get some underpants later. "Okay, I'm covered. Kind of."
April's footsteps are enormous in the hallway coming toward me, and as she emerges to my sight again, she's pissed. Major league pissed. "Well, looks like you had a good night."
"Not so loud," I groan, rubbing at my temples. "What time is it anyway?"
"Twelve thirty. We were going to meet a half hour ago downstairs, but I finally came up instead," she says, slinging her bag onto the chair. At least her voice is at a reasonably tolerable level, or maybe I'm just waking up more. "You could have at least set an alarm, you know."
"I . . . I don't remember what happened," I finally say, still rubbing my forehead. "What were we meeting for?"
"Your car?" April reminds me, and I nod painfully. Right, switch out the rented Mustang for the one I'm going to lease through the end of the season.
"Oh yeah . . . okay, give me twenty minutes, get a shower and some clothes on. Can you . . . well, can you get me something to eat? It'll help, maybe some juice too?"
April's glower is deeper than some of the 'war faces' I've seen on charging linebackers, but she nods. "Yes sir, Mr. Paulson. I'll be happy to get you a muffin and some orange juice."
She grabs her bag and storms off, slamming my hotel room door behind her, the boom causing me to whimper in pain. And I thought that the headache was bad before.
"Just remember what Xavier told you," I whisper to myself, thinking back to one of the guys who'd passed along some wisdom back when I was a freshman at Western. Most hangovers are because your body is partially poisoned, and mostly dehydrated. Water does wonders when trying to recover.
So I take a shower, long and warm, the heat helping to open the circulation to my head as I soak my hair in the warm spray and swallow mouthful after mouthful of the water until my belly is sloshy and full.
I shut off the water and step out, hearing the door to the hotel room open again, this time with two voices as the desk manager comes in with April. "Mr. Paulson, Miss Gray says that she's your PA?"
"Yeah," I call from the bath area. "Thanks, sorry. I locked the door."
The manager leaves, and I come out of the bath, pulling a robe around my shoulders. "Here's your muffin and juice."
April's on it, with a huge cranberry muffin that's got enough frosting along with other carbs to get my blood sugar up, and a whole liter carton of apple juice. While I pull some boxers on underneath my robe, she opens the package and puts it on the plate that's by the coffee maker, and pours me a large glass of the juice, dropping in some ice cubes from the bucket as well.
"Thanks," I say as she sets it on the table. I find some track pants from Western and pull them on, still leaving my robe on until the pants are pulled all the way up. "That was fast."
"There's a mini-market on the corner," April says quietly. She's still pissed off though, I can see it in her eyes, and I know I should apologize.
"Really, I'm sorry," I say, taking a seat and picking up the muffin. "I should have pulled a robe or something on before opening the door."
"It's not that," April says, and I see that she's genuinely hurt. Jesus, what the hell did I do? I couldn't have been that much of an asshole in one night, could I?