7
Richie awoke to his doorbell ringing at ten o’clock that same morning. He had a raging headache. No, a hangover.
Now, awakened by the ringing and pounding on his door, he vaguely remembered Vito dropping him off at home last night. He blinked a couple of times. Looking around, he saw that he had managed to take off his shoes, but that was it, before collapsing face down on the bed. Apparently, he hadn’t moved all night.
He stumbled out to the front door and opened it.
His other closest friend stood there. Shay was about as different from Vito as anyone could be. He was at least a half-foot taller, blond and aristocratic. He even dressed like some English lord, preferring a wardrobe of mostly what Richie learned were “heather” colored sport jackets—what the hell kind of color was heat
