Swimming to consciousness feels like wading through treacle. Every inch of my body aches, my head is pounding, and my stomach rolls at the thought of moving. My eyes refuse to open despite numerous attempts and instead, images flash through my mind as the events of last night slowly start to filter back. The girls hitting on Jackson. The shots I was downing with no regard to my poor liver. Dancing, oh God no, the dancing on the bar. Jackson pulling me down off said bar and our ensuing fight. Me storming off to the office and becoming intimately acquainted with a tequila bottle. And finally, being washed by Jackson.
I let out an involuntary groan. Then someone moves next to me. Oh f**k. The memory of Jackson spooning me flicks into my mind. “No, no,” I mutter, hoping to retreat back to unc
