Adam wakes in the morning with a headache and a hard-on. Before he even opens his eyes, he knows he isn’t in his own room. Didn’t he drive home last night? He kind of remembers Trace taking his keys.
Shit. He rolls over, listening to unfamiliar springs creak beneath his weight. All I had were two drinks. He wonders what kind of rum the Lot put in his soda.
Someone slaps Adam’s leg. “Get off my couch.”
Adam would recognize Mike’s voice anywhere—it’s high and a little reedy. Adam can’t imagine what the dude sounded like before puberty. When Adam opens his eyes, he sees Mike sitting on the coffee table and staring down at him with a bemused look on his face, like he just told a joke and is waiting for a laugh, but Adam doesn’t see anything funny right this second.
“Sorry.” Adam pulls h
